terrible saints | camila & lorna ; blitz

I don't remember much past the four shots I drank immediately after making out with Greer, but I do know that by the time I stumbled out of Leo's apartment, the sun was already cresting over the horizon. It wouldn't be long before first period and I'm in desperate need of at least a five-minute shower and a swig of mouthwash before I make it through the day. Otherwise I may as well just crawl into bed when I get home and not even bother.

Whiskey still clouds my thoughts and controls my balance, or lack thereof, as I make my way down the street. My eyes burn, the morning sun something like a devil in the sky, blinding me and making it impossible for me to see where I'm going. Fuck my life, why did I drink so much? I know the answer and I don't like it. Because you have no fucking control, you piece of shit. The voice inside my head echoes and I wince as a result, more so out of shame than anything else because I walk smack dab into that annoying preppy little shit Camila Sharpe. And before I can even offer up a half-hearted apology, she's already reading me the riot act. 

"Pulling your leg? Who even says that?" I snort out a laugh, blinking hard a few times so I can get a good look at her. She isn't in her usual uniform skirt and button down shirt, the school uniform I usually work so hard to break away from be it rolling my skirt too high or wearing a t-shirt from my favorite band. Camila would never approve, but now she wears leggings and a shirt, running shoes and her hair pulled back. It's an entirely different sight, one I don't mind seeing at all. "Inappropriate? Are you serious?" Another laugh, another stolen glance at the low neckline of her top and the flush to her cheeks from being pissed.

"You' know, you're cute when you're angry."