God fucking damn, everything is so fucked up.

Mason rubbed his face with hands, sitting out the last hour of work. He feels like shit - hands heavily reeking of the cigarettes he chain-smoked like a brooding character from a bad fanfic. People filed into the new Marvel flick in droves, something about dudes whose costumes hugged their junk like medieval torture devices, and Mason robotically rang up tickets, his mind a million miles away.

His thoughts were consumed by the shitty mess he found himself in. Mason nervously clutched the old zippo in his jeans pocket to steady his restless hands.

You fucking promised yourself, promised you wouldn't act like a piece of shit anymore!

He stared at the closed door to the theater, light from the movie explosions periodically flashing through. Mason felt nauseous. He had just gotten his life together, got his shit sorted out so it was stable - cut out the batshit crazy friends, stopped acting like a tough piece of crap, breaking bones and racking up more police fines than hairs on his head, enrolled in institute, found a girlfriend, goes to a fucking job.

And of course it all went to hell.

Mason slammed the cash register drawer shut a bit too hard when his shift ended and practically flew past his coworkers towards the locker room, ignoring the idle chatter, to finally peel off his dark blue work shirt.

Brenda. Fucking Brenda. It was naive to expect life to ever not bend him over and fuck him in the ass for once.

That bitch, your so-called "best" friend. Always oozing sugary sweetness, everyone's favorite, the prettiest girl in class who acts all like "oh no, I'm not beautiful, YOU'RE beautiful!"

Mason grit his teeth.

Two-faced cunt.

He quickly changed and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, tossed a quick "later" to the other guys in the room as he left "New Cinema" and made his way with heavy steps to his white pickup truck. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the truck and plopped into the driver's seat. He rummaged in his backpack, pulled out a pack of Winstons, and plucked out a cigarette with his teeth.

Brenda. She was always buzzing around him and you like a damn third wheel - but since she was his girlfriend's best friend, he silently tolerated the forced threesome hangouts. She got under his skin like the cheap pen ink that stains your fingers and never quite washes off - texting him overly sweet messages he replied to out of politeness, choosing times at parties when he was drunk and you weren't around to press her ass against him, or "accidentally" fall right into his lap with her dress riding up so high God himself could see her lacy panties.

Mason lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag as if he wanted the smoke to push out what happened next.

They fucked. Yep. Fuck. Motherfucker.

And the worst part? Afterwards, he couldn't grow a pair and confess to you. He loved you, even after acting like a total scumbag. And this whole shit carnival kept spinning round and round like a hellish merry-go-round. Brenda kept clinging to him and every goddamn time he told her to fuck off, she somehow cronged herself deeper under his skin and it ended in hate sex, rinse and repeat. She looked like an innocent fairy while continuing to push his buttons, manipulate him, lie to him, keeping him by the balls. He was in deep shit. It wasn't an excuse, not for a single damn second and he was well aware of that. It takes two to tango, and that thought made Mason feel like he was suffocating. It was like he had shoved his hand into a paper shredder that was slowly pulling him all the way in. He felt lower than pond scum. He needed to tell you everything but he just couldn't. He was fucking terrified, his tongue practically glued to the roof of his mouth at the mere thought of confessing. He was scared. Scared she'd leave, that she'd make that face, the one he deserved that would utterly destroy him.

Mason sighed, and grabbing his phone, quickly typed out a text.

Button, I'm done with this fucking movie theater for today. Be ready in like 20, I'll pick you up

You sat across from him as he drove, and he felt like utter dogshit. As bad as he did after the accident. He lit another cigarette, smirking when his Spotify playlist connected to the stereo randomly threw on "Blue Hotel" by Chris Isaak.

"Damn, this shit is older than a mammoth's ass, but sets the vibe, right?"

Perfect for outing what an asshole I am.

Mason parked by a small lake and getting out of the truck, waved for you to follow. He walked closer to the water and plopped down on the ground, watching the sun nearly set, his hand absently fiddling with the thin blades of grass. The air smelled like water, crickets chirping nearby.

"Used to come here with my brother when we were kids. Was like our secret spot." Mason plucked a long blade and stuck it in his mouth. "We'd talk here. Share stuff, when shit got rough, even as kids." He shot you a mischievous glance. "Like, bitching about the dickheads from the next street over who stole our football and wouldn't fess up. Oh, and catching frogs. But the talks came first."

Mason looked back at the lake. The water was calm, only occasionally rippling from a fish splashing. He swallowed, his heart pounding like it was about to burst out of his fucking chest. He had to say it.

It would be right. It would be fair. But so... terrifying. And painful, already.

His mouth moved automatically, as if in a daze.

"Well..." he paused for a moment, which seemed as drawn out as tar.

And right then, car noises and loud music pierced the quiet. Mason turned to see their institute classmates piling out of cars, hauling booze and speakers, clearly intent on having a night rager by the water. Spotting Hopkins and you, they started waving, some of the guys Mason hung out with already making a beeline for them.

"...well, I totally didn't expect a party here, but I'm kinda down? Wanna stay?" Mason finished, feeling the hot rock of guilt sink deep into his stomach, leaving a faint warm trail.

I'll definitely tell her. But not at a fucking party, the thought skittered through his mind like a lifeboat to a drowning man.