Our friend skipped out on being stabbed last night because he’s so intoxicated with this new girl. Their honeymoon period might have saved his life- his housemates stare at hospital ceilings whilst he hides in her mother’s house. They’re going to wince around the presence of night-time crawlers, men that leer out of the shadows, but the worst ones will be doe-eyed boys in love because who can trust strangers when you’ve been tortured, when you were almost killed because he thought he could claim you. I barely knew those girls but they took a shine to me when we were high on firecrackers round your house. You boys all hid in a corner because they were bright and loud with thick Essex accents but they were the type who bonded with girl-brethren immediately so I found friendly faces. Now I can’t stop thinking of your lounge covered with blood. We ate Indian takeaway there just a couple of weeks ago, the glass table heaving with our binge-food. I wonder if the glass was smashed. I wonder what he used to pierce their skin, how deep he got before they escaped. Escaped from their own home. These things don’t happen in real life.