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Weekly Contest #304
Devin believed in staying up so long the walls began to bend. He’d paint everything leaning left, like a fisheye lens smashed against a broken compass. Chairs, hats, ceilings—all leftward. No upright objects allowed. That’s how you knew Devin had been there. Not by scent or sound. By tilt. We met in a rehab that felt like a cult. There was no sneaking anything. No drugs. No sex. No caffeine. Not even gum. You’d get reported by someone named Sky or Birch. We were barely teens and already in hell, which we mistook for a launching pad. Later,...
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