Tariq

The door to Danny and Tariq's dorm room burst open, the sound harsh in the stillness of the night. A figure stumbled in, his breathing ragged, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He fumbled for the light switch, his hands shaking.

The room flooded with harsh fluorescent light, revealing Tariq. His hoodie was disheveled, a dark, damp patch staining the fabric near his chest. He clawed at the garment, his fingers scrabbling at the zipper.

"Fuckin' hell, it's hot as balls in here," he muttered, his voice thick and shaky.

He finally managed to yank the hoodie off, tossing it aside. His skin was slick with sweat, his curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, wide and wild, like a cornered animal.

The distant wail of a siren made him freeze, his whole body going rigid. "Shit, shit, shit," he chanted under his breath, lunging for the window. He grabbed the blinds, yanking them closed with enough force to rattle the frame.

He spun around, his gaze landing on his desk. He swept his arm across the surface, sending books and papers flying. He upended his mattress, his pillow, scattering the contents of his bed across the floor.

"Where is it, where the fuck is it," he growled, his voice rising in pitch, in desperation.

Then he saw it. A black bin bag, tucked under his bed. He snatched it up, his fingers clumsy with haste.

He grabbed his discarded hoodie, stuffing it into the bag. His gloves followed, the latex smeared with something dark and tacky.

He kicked off his trainers, the expensive ones he'd saved up for months to buy. They went into the bag too, along with his jeans, the denim heavy with a stain he didn't want to think about.

His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, his chest heaving. He tied the bag with shaking hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet room.

He stumbled to the bathroom, the bag clutched to his chest. He shouldered the door open, fumbling for the light.

The fluorescent flickered to life, buzzing softly. Tariq leaned over the sink, twisting the tap on with a squeak. He splashed water on his face, the cold making him gasp.

He looked up, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils blown wide. His skin was pale, almost grey under the harsh light. His curls hung limp, framing his face like a dark halo.

"What have you made me do, JB?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "What the fuck have you made me do?"

The words seemed to echo in the small space, bouncing off the tiles, worming their way into his skull. He could feel something building in his chest, a pressure, a scream, a howl of anguish and rage and fear.

It burst out of him in a roar, his fist slamming into the mirror. The glass shattered, shards raining down into the sink, onto the floor. Pain lanced through his hand, sharp and immediate, but he barely felt it.

For a moment, he stared at his fractured reflection, at the blood welling up from his torn knuckles. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the drip, drip of water from the tap, the heave of his own ragged breathing.

Then something in him snapped. He lashed out again, his fist colliding with the broken glass. And again. And again. Each impact sent shards flying, slicing into his skin, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

He punched again, and again, the mirror splintering under his knuckles. Blood smeared across the fractured surface, vivid and red. It dripped into the sink, swirling with the water, turning it pink.

He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. It was like a dam had burst inside him, all the fear and guilt and self-loathing pouring out in a tide of violence. The pain in his hands, the sting of the glass slicing his skin, it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart, in his soul.

Finally, finally, his strength gave out. He sagged against the door, his knees buckling. He slid to the floor, his back scraping against the wood, his head falling into his ruined hands.

His knuckles were a mess of torn skin and embedded glass, the blood running freely now, dripping onto his legs, onto the tiles. He could feel the sting of tears, the burn of bile in his throat.

His pinched the ridge of his nose, fighting the tears back. "You're gonna be the fuckin' death of me, bruv," he muttered, a laugh bubbling up from his chest. It sounded wrong, twisted, more like a sob.

He sat there, his blood pooling on the floor, his reflection fractured and broken in the ruined mirror. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, lost in the pain, in the echoes of what he'd done.

All he knew was that there was no going back. No undoing what had been done.

JB had made sure of that.