with the muzzle of that massive fucking gun.
I pushed a few buttons on the remote and the feed for camera nine filled the screen. Both of us became so quiet, I’d have sworn we stopped breathing. When I saw what concerned Milo, I opened the desk drawer with a steady hand and pulled out my own 9mm. Gun in hand, a wave of focused calm swept over me as I locked eyes with my lieutenant and motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
Miri
“You motherfucking asshole!” I screeched at my missing boyfriend-slash-dealer-slash-dickhead while I yanked open drawers and scattered clothes all over the filthy floor in my desperate search. On the edge of losing my mind, I stopped and looked around the tiny studio apartment I called home. My trembling fingers threaded through my knotted hair. This place was a disaster, more closely resembling the scene of a break-in than a place to live, since I’d completely ransacked it in my futile quest for a dose.
My stomach chose that exact moment to cramp. The pain was so great I clutched at my midsection, and collapsed to the floor in a ball. The agony was nothing compared to what I knew came next if I didn’t score some H soon. Just one bag. That would be enough to hold me over until that prick, Mason, came back. Sweating profusely, I used the edge of my shirt to wipe my forehead as anxiety flooded the very veins I wished opiates were flowing through instead. I hardly had the energy to rock back and forth when another fission cracked inside my frail body. While I writhed in distress, reality struck like a hard kick to the ribs.
No Mason, no money, no H, no way to get any.
Where the fuck is he?
I clawed at the filthy carpet with my ragged, broken nails, and screamed in frustration as my body and mind turned against me. Unable to breathe properly, I began arguing with myself as my mind splintered apart.
My body begged, Get some H. Get some H.
I can’t. I need Mason to get it for me.
My mind responded, I don’t need him. I can get my own score
Somehow, this last idea made perfect sense.
Nodding to the voice in my head, I pawed through a pile of fabric and tugged on a thin white tank and black shorts in desperate need of a wash. With a pair of old flip-flops on my feet, I took to the streets, dark and incredibly dangerous at this time of night. No matter—I didn’t notice a single thing about my surroundings. Pink elephants could have marched down the sidewalk, playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and I wouldn’t have cared. The only thing my attention was fixated on, all I could envision, was my next dose. I licked my cracked lips as I imagined injecting the hot liquid bliss into my vein and letting the white nothingness of the heroin take me away from this hell.
Mason had guys working around here. I just had to find one. I scratched at my always itchy skin, unconsciously opening old sores and creating new ones. Not that I gave a shit. The stabbing cramps in my stomach stopped me at least five more times as I wandered the rundown east Austin neighborhood. Pain like I never imagined forced me to bend over and groan time and time again. It became so severe, I worried I’d throw up or shit myself right on the sidewalk when I collapsed next to a couple of hookers looking to make a buck. Thankfully, the girls turned their backs to me, uninterested in some junkie chick falling apart on their corner at one in the morning.
Single-minded, I somehow forced my sore feet to continue and ignored the chills wracking my body despite the humid eighty-degree temperature. One more block before I’d most likely crumple to the ground and curl into the fetal position. Soon I would go into full withdrawal and beg for someone to put me out of my misery. My body was about to give up when I spotted a tall, thin man wearing a backwards baseball cap halfway down the street.
Oh my god! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Nicky!” I didn’t recognize my own ragged voice. The man watched me with
I pushed a few buttons on the remote and the feed for camera nine filled the screen. Both of us became so quiet, I’d have sworn we stopped breathing. When I saw what concerned Milo, I opened the desk drawer with a steady hand and pulled out my own 9mm. Gun in hand, a wave of focused calm swept over me as I locked eyes with my lieutenant and motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
Miri
“You motherfucking asshole!” I screeched at my missing boyfriend-slash-dealer-slash-dickhead while I yanked open drawers and scattered clothes all over the filthy floor in my desperate search. On the edge of losing my mind, I stopped and looked around the tiny studio apartment I called home. My trembling fingers threaded through my knotted hair. This place was a disaster, more closely resembling the scene of a break-in than a place to live, since I’d completely ransacked it in my futile quest for a dose.
My stomach chose that exact moment to cramp. The pain was so great I clutched at my midsection, and collapsed to the floor in a ball. The agony was nothing compared to what I knew came next if I didn’t score some H soon. Just one bag. That would be enough to hold me over until that prick, Mason, came back. Sweating profusely, I used the edge of my shirt to wipe my forehead as anxiety flooded the very veins I wished opiates were flowing through instead. I hardly had the energy to rock back and forth when another fission cracked inside my frail body. While I writhed in distress, reality struck like a hard kick to the ribs.
No Mason, no money, no H, no way to get any.
Where the fuck is he?
I clawed at the filthy carpet with my ragged, broken nails, and screamed in frustration as my body and mind turned against me. Unable to breathe properly, I began arguing with myself as my mind splintered apart.
My body begged, Get some H. Get some H.
I can’t. I need Mason to get it for me.
My mind responded, I don’t need him. I can get my own score
Somehow, this last idea made perfect sense.
Nodding to the voice in my head, I pawed through a pile of fabric and tugged on a thin white tank and black shorts in desperate need of a wash. With a pair of old flip-flops on my feet, I took to the streets, dark and incredibly dangerous at this time of night. No matter—I didn’t notice a single thing about my surroundings. Pink elephants could have marched down the sidewalk, playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and I wouldn’t have cared. The only thing my attention was fixated on, all I could envision, was my next dose. I licked my cracked lips as I imagined injecting the hot liquid bliss into my vein and letting the white nothingness of the heroin take me away from this hell.
Mason had guys working around here. I just had to find one. I scratched at my always itchy skin, unconsciously opening old sores and creating new ones. Not that I gave a shit. The stabbing cramps in my stomach stopped me at least five more times as I wandered the rundown east Austin neighborhood. Pain like I never imagined forced me to bend over and groan time and time again. It became so severe, I worried I’d throw up or shit myself right on the sidewalk when I collapsed next to a couple of hookers looking to make a buck. Thankfully, the girls turned their backs to me, uninterested in some junkie chick falling apart on their corner at one in the morning.
Single-minded, I somehow forced my sore feet to continue and ignored the chills wracking my body despite the humid eighty-degree temperature. One more block before I’d most likely crumple to the ground and curl into the fetal position. Soon I would go into full withdrawal and beg for someone to put me out of my misery. My body was about to give up when I spotted a tall, thin man wearing a backwards baseball cap halfway down the street.
Oh my god! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Nicky!” I didn’t recognize my own ragged voice. The man watched me with
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