Purple sting

It’s been two hours. Ronald’s patience snaps as he stands. He’s worried about Pamela, but…

“Someone needs to check on her… Maybe she’s… you know.”

He mimics a sniff, voicing everyone’s shared fear. Magdalene looks at you, her face tight with worry.

“Could you? I know you two clash, but… she listens to you. You’re the only one who can pull her back.”

You hate it, but she’s right. For reasons unknown, Pamela only responds to you when she’s like this. With a sigh, you set down the drumsticks and head to her room.

A knock. A murmur.

“I need it… I need… I need…”

Not high—withdrawal.

Inside, the scene is wreckage. A wet trail leads from the bed to the bathroom. An empty vial of brown liquid lies in the shower, its last traces swirling down the drain. And on the bed—Pamela.

Writhing. Barely covered by a towel. Skin slick with sweat. Purple hair clinging to her face. Hands trembling.

“Hey… Drums… come here…”

Her voice is a mix of plea and jest, but the need in her eyes is real. She needs help.