Betting on You

What the fuck was I doing?

Going to her house??

I’d been serious about trying to help her, mostly because Bailey seemed so wide-eyed and trusting that she was going to be shattered when reality reared its ugly head. I knew we weren’t going to be able to stop it, because life, but at least if we fought, she wouldn’t feel helpless.

I fucking hated feeling helpless.

Because helplessness was a little like waterboarding (I said a little). Someone else has all the control while you feel like you can’t breathe and like it’s never going to stop.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

Logically you know it will—eventually that bucket is going to be empty, right?—but that doesn’t help the panic when the dousing is constant.

God, I’m so fucked-up.

But helping her was one thing.

Going to her house to help her?

Terrible idea.