Or maybe…

Can I mix in some realness with all the hurt?

They say actors draw on what they know. I’m sure it’s the same with writers.

I would love to say life got better. Scott realised he’d become a monster and he enrolled in therapy, taking it seriously, addressing whatever demons were haunting him. His childhood, as far as I knew, had been happy enough. He had a good relationship with his mother, who lived on the other side of the country. There was nothing to explain the ogre behind his charming smile. He’d never said a single word about his dad, other than he loved him. That was it.

I’m tired, my eyes growing heavy. I’ve been writing for three and a half hours and my hand is beginning to cramp. My mouth is dry. That’s the beautiful thing about writing, how it can consume a person, make them forget the rest of the world exists.

I’m rambling now. I think I’m getting addicted to the feeling of the pen against the paper. The library is so quiet. Except for the occasional bird chirping from the greenery outside, there’s nothing, just me and the page.

41

LAUREN

The entranceway of Scott’s house was a mess of cardboard boxes, towers of them stacked on top of each other. Some of them weren’t open; others spilled out packing material across the floor.

As Gary led her into the dining room, they passed dozens of expensive-looking purchases, TVs and hair straighteners and bottles of wine casually strewn across the carpet. There was an exercise machine awkwardly wedged against the wall, with a designer handbag at its feet, the logo smeared with what looked like tomato sauce. Or Lauren hoped it was.

Scott sat at the kitchen table. He looked like a corpse. The counters were covered in more boxes. A coffee machine gleamed from the corner, with a blender sitting next to it, the cord still wrapped in its protective tape.

“Afternoon,” Scott said. “Welcome to my lovely home.”

Gary sat next to him. “How long have we got?”

Gary had sneaked in through the back, checking if Casey was around, before coming out and waving Lauren inside. Part of Lauren hoped they ran into the cat-killing bitch.

“No idea,” Scott said. “Sometimes she’ll go out all night. She’s a drug addict on top of everything else. She showed me her stash a couple of nights ago. She’s got everything in there, weed and coke and pills and shrooms and even a couple of needles. We talked about drugs in the beginning, you know, and she said she’d never touch them.”

Scott took a long sip of his coffee, staring straight ahead, as though he was talking to himself. Lauren quietly sat opposite the two men.

She found her hand straying to the bracelet, as it often did.

“How much has she taken?” Gary asked.

“Almost all of it. I’ve got a few grand left.”

Scott was still talking in that disjointed way, as though he wasn’t present. Lauren wished she could comfort him, even if she knew there was a chance he was as bad as Casey.