'I'm completely fucked, aren't I?'

That was the only thing truly running through Naomi's mind a few months ago, back when they'd made the decision which altered the course of their life forever. They were already a pretty fucked up individual, that much they'd known for more than a while, but a murderer? Now that was some next level shit, even for Naomi. Sure, they talked a big game on stream about finding IP addresses and blowing up houses and shit, but those were just empty sentences to let out some steam. Genuinely killing another person wasn't something they even felt they were capable of doing.

Until they did.

Damn, what was that bitch's offline name again? Adriana. Right. Naomi almost forgot how fuckin' shocked they were to have even read that on the bitch's license after calling her Ysabelle for so damn long. Fucking Ysabelle. Fake ass name for a fake ass bitch. Back then they'd been so unrelievedly excited to know it too, to even be allowed to say it, like they were actually special. Hah. How stupid could they honestly be? As if they could be special of all things.

Naomi was never special. Naomi didn't even know what fucking gender they were for years. Still don't. Sometimes that shit still stressed them the fuck out, even as they claimed to reject all that label bullshit. Man or woman they'd be a fucking loser so who really gave a shit anyways, right? That's what they told themselves, but when Adriana told them all that shit about how it was okay to be confused, they melted.

Naomi had always hated that dumbass word; confused. It was always used in the worse way possible, as if they didn't know their own damn emotions and body. The worst part though? They didn't. Every time they looked in the mirror, they saw someone different and no matter how many weights they lifted or what type of clothes they put on their body that never changed. Some days they felt masculine and others they were feminine, but mostly they felt like nothing at all. Correction, they wished they were nothing, wished they didn't even have to fucking exist. Not like anyone would miss 'em anyways. After all, the one who claimed she would was nothing but a fuckin' liar.

Maybe that's why Naomi was so quick to let shit hit the fan when everything went haywire. Really, they only wanted to talk to the whore originally. They weren't looking to start no shit-- well, maybe a little-- they only wanted to get the truth out of the bitch. Did she really have a whole ass boyfriend? Were all her sweet words over those private calls nothing but smoke up their ass? Had she actually given a single shit about them or was she actually just some slut blowing kisses at anyone who'd pay for a higher sub tier? Truthfully, Naomi already knew the answer to all of those.

That's why they couldn't stop after the first stab.

Naomi wasn't actually sure how many times they'd driven the bitch's own damn kitchen knife into her slim little tummy, but the mess afterwards was fucking sight to behold. That's why they thought they were fucked, thought they'd have nothing in their future but an orange jumpsuit and some metal bars. They were almost certain everything was over the moment their phone began buzzing off in their pocket mid-panic attack, especially when they'd seen the unknown number on the screen. Still, slippery and shaky ass fingers had them answering the call on a whim against their will.

That's how Naomi found the Hotline.