There’s A Sickening New Version Of Suicide That Teens Are Being Hospitalized For Attempting

Unsplash / Greg Panagiotoglou

“Nice being out of those crack houses, huh?” Hardwick asked, thumbing through a stack of books like he was browsing a shop instead of responding to a call. The seal on his shirtsleeve folded down on itself, the torn stitches poking up like eyelashes. I wondered if he owned an iron.

“I don’t know,” I said, singsong. Neither of us took our work too seriously, so walking around a college campus seemed like more of a coffee break than an assignment. “I’m trying not to touch much. I went to university for a month or two, I know all the hot spots.” I paused to purse my lips. “I’d really love to trade my gun in for a black light.”

A low, long whistle slipped from his lips. “In a library, really? I mean, I knew you were a little slut, but there should be some moral line.”

Were?” I asked with a wink. “I haven’t lost my touch yet.”

The smile he gave me made my own mouth twitch. I’d vowed to stop flirting with him the day his wife left. Back when she was around, I’d found our banter hot. A secret that would lead to nothing and have zero consequences.

Now, it just made guilt swirl in my stomach. I’d never fuck him, so why make his wife suffer through watching us flirt from heaven or hell or whatever world she opened a portal to?

“What’d the boss say, again?” I asked, wanting to skip to a new conversation.

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