I fucked up again. 

The cards I was playing had been blank all along. 

I sat in a cold café, cappuccino. Voices in and out of my head went from whisper to scream, ashtrays filled to the brim, coffee stains on my new shirt. I saw a pretty girl’s scars. Earl Grey, two sugars. 

My friend hid his face in his hands, and they grew. His hands grew and grew until his whole body was hidden by his middle finger.

So, I did what I had to do. I pricked him with a needle. 

It was my last one.