WARNING: SUBSTANCE ABUSE. ALLUSION TO GROOMING & SEXUAL VIOLENCE. MURDER. DEATH.
NOTE: This work is in no way attempting to normalize, romanticize, or advertise the use of drugs. Serena is not perfect. Serena is not to be admired or followed. Serena has other options.
If you ever feel yourself going down a similar path, or already are—please seek help. There are kind people out there who have gone through the same journey willing to help, and have made it their life's mission to do so. People care deeply, simply just off the basis of your struggle. Please contact your local Recovery Centre, Mental Health and Addiction Services, etc. Even just talking to a stranger might help.
As you are reading her descent into addiction, please remind yourself of the following:
1) Substance use never solves the root problem—at most, they mask it temporarily, if at all.
2) They can trap you in a cycle of dependence by artificially creating a false sense of relief.
3) Over time, it increases anxiety and depression, considerably harming mental health.
4) To add, they damage the brain's natural ability to regulate thoughts and emotions—sometimes permanently.
5) AS THEY DISTORT JUDGMENT, IT CAN LEAD TO IMPULSIVE AND DANGEROUS DECISIONS.
6) They affect the nervous system, heart, lungs, liver, etc.—ruining physical health. This can also be permanent.
7) Due to a wide array of factors—systemic, mental, physical, economic—addiction can make life even harder than before.
8) Socially, physically, emotionally, economically—they are not only expensive, but unsustainable. They often lead people into debt, and in turn illegal activities. This further fuels the cycle.
9) Due to the above, they rupture and weaken social connections with loved ones.
10) Last but not least—there are always healthier alternatives. If you cannot afford or access therapy and do not currently have a support system, you can try: exressing your creativity, exercising at your own pace to reclaim your body, and/or focus on self-growth.
💖💖💖STAY SAFE HOES 💚💚💚
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NOTE: This work is not meant to push a certain 'political agenda'. The author, Farting_Cat, simply wishes to showcase the main character's DECLINING morale compass and personal conflict by using an allegory that pertains to real world events and phenomena. Serena's attitude, behaviour, and action(s) pertaining to this topic are simply a reflection of her fictional personhood. She is also not meant to be the most reliable narrator. Readers can disagree with a book's characters.
Farting__Cat is not Serena. She is not a reflection of the author's thoughts and beliefs. The Farting Cat simply likes to write realistic characters and pull from the real world for inspiration. To add, readers can disagree with Farting_Cat's narrative choices, as everyone is entitled to their own opinions.
Lastly, the author would like to clarify that they in no way endorse Serena's actions in the following chapter. Readers are encouraged to form their own independent opinion. Once again, Serena is not meant to be the most reliable narrator—nor is she a perfect person.
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The memory surfaced not as a thought, but as a full-sensory flashback, a ghost of pain.
She was thirteen. His name was Mr. Mill, her science teacher. His room smelled of old books and cedar. His hands, so much larger than hers, pinning her wrists. The weight of him. The tearing feeling. The shame that followed, a stain she could never wash out.
That was the first fracture. That was when the world stopped being a story and became a predator. Before that, she had been naive, believing in a whitewashed history where good triumphed. He had taught her the real, brutal truth—with his body on hers.
A bizarre, detached thought flickered through the inferno: Would it make them understand? If it happened to them? If they were violated, crushed, made to feel that same powerlessness? Would it scrub the hate and arrogance from their souls?
Would they become better people?
The thought was annihilated by the spiderweb tattoo, the beer breath, the hand on her hip.
So what if they were to go through the same pain? If they even changed for the better?
The things that turned them into who they were would still be in place. There were always going to be people like them, inflicting pain wherever they went. What matters for her is the now—what's in front.
'Why didn't you do this?'
'Why wouldn't you do that?'
'Haven't you tried getting help?'
After some time, the focus wouldn't be on the act itself, but on how the victim dealt with the consequences.
'... Ultimately, your weakness is your own fault.'
Time seemed to slow, to thicken. She saw a gun tucked into the waistband of the man holding her. Her body moved before her mind could form the command. It should've been the same fluid, precise motion with which she used to clean her brushes or lock her restraints. A practiced, desperate efficiency.
It wasn't. This was the other thing.
Her hand darted forward, fingers closing around the cold, hard polymer of the gun's grip.
Their laughter died. Confusion, then alarm, flashed across their faces.
There was no warning. No speech. Just a pure, unmediated reaction.
The gunshot was obscenely loud in the confined space, a single, sharp crack that echoed off the brick walls. Neck-Tattoo staggered back, a look of profound surprise on his face, a dark flower blooming on his chest.
"You dumbass! Why didn't you hide your gun?!" One of them shouted.
Another shot. The man who had groped her fell.
Panic. The remaining ones scrambled, one reaching for his pocket. She fired again. And again. And again. And again. Each miss was a fly in the process. The gun jumped in her hand, each recoil a punctuation mark in her rage. It was not a fight. It was an eradication.
Silence.
The alley was still. The four men lay motionless on the ground. The smell of cordite and copper filled the air, a familiar, metallic scent. She stood amidst them, the gun hanging heavy in her hand, her chest heaving.
The cocaine was still there, a frantic buzz beneath the numbness. She felt nothing. No triumph. No remorse. Just a vast, hollow silence.
"... This is nothing."
A rattle.
She turned. An elderly woman stood at the mouth of the alley, frozen in terror, her phone already held up, the screen glowing in the dim light.
Serena didn't run. She simply turned and walked away, back towards her apartment, the gun still in her hand. She walked with the steady, dissociated gait of a sleepwalker, leaving the carnage behind.
Sirens began to wail in the distance after some time, just when she made it to her building. A sound she's heard before. She climbed the stairs. She was at her door, fumbling for her keys, when the first police car screeched to a halt below. Red lights painted the walls, a macabre disco. She got the door open. She stepped inside, into the safe, familiar stale air. The locks. She needed the locks.
But there were footsteps on the stairs, heavy and fast. Shouts out her door. Its inevitable collapse. "Police! Drop the weapon!"
She turned, standing in her apartment, looking at the advancing officers. She saw their guns drawn, their faces set in masks of professional violence. She saw Mr. Mill. She saw the spiderwebs on their necks, the leers in their eyes.
This was it.
She raised the gun. It wasn't a decision this time. It was a conclusion.
The world exploded in sound and light. A searing heat punched into her chest, then another, and another. The force threw her back. She landed on the floor, staring up at the familiar, water-stained ceiling. The pain was immense, but it was distant, already receding. The numbness she had sought for so long finally washed over her completely, a warm, dark tide.