Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Using basic percentage skills taught in high school to tell a supplier he has room to strike a higher price point with a dealer wasn’t the best or smartest shit for me to do.
Yeah, it kept me with product I wanted.
And yeah, it kept my ass with work when I needed it.
But it also made me a liability.
Easy to erase if someone didn’t like me opening my mouth about their shit.
Refusing to stay in the same city for too long became less of a luxury and more of a survival technique in no time.
The almost sickly, thin woman closes her eyes and runs her bony fingers through her wet hair, collecting the attention of the nearby male orderly.
I know that look.
I’d know that look any fucking where.
That’s the wanna fuck her look.
Can I blame him?
Yeah.
Her overly done highlights, which probably cost as much as the average person’s car payment, leathery skin because tan skin is the only skin worth having, and rib chic physique aren’t my favorite shit.
Or…to be brutally honest since that’s what the fuck I’m working on, they are my least favorite fucking shit, yet the first I always turn to because they’re nothing like the one that got away.
The one I have to figure out how to stop wanting.
The one I have no business wanting ten years after the fucking fact.
Women like that one down there, the one that’s now purposely drying her tits first to toy with the employee who has no business eye-fucking her, are the ones I actually hate.
Almost as much as I hate my fucking self.
A sharp knock on the door to my suite interrupts the self-loathing that was just getting warmed up. “Excuse me, Mr. Collins?”
I don’t turn to answer the feminine voice.
I actually don’t answer at all.
I don’t fucking have to.
And in this place, I really only do the bare minimum of shit I have to.
“Mr. Collins?”
Fuck, I hate having “Mr.” in front of my name.
I’d prefer just “Collins”.
Even that I’ve developed a disgust for.
Got to a point where I’d just go by first name.
And in some cities?
I’d just make up a fucking new one.
The month I was in Dalvegan I went by Gere, but everyone took it like “Gear” as in Gearhead.
I didn’t hate it.
Just wasn’t why I chose it.
“Mr. Collins…?”
I continue watching the blonde drag her towel across her wet body. The same body she’s spent thousands of dollars “perfecting”. The same body she spent thousands of dollars fucking harming. Fuck, she’s the epitome of sacrilegious ideas to what makes a human being worth anything. She’s a haunting reminder of the false idol of inconceivable immortality that never came from the life I’ve plummeted into.
The life I’m not sure is done letting me fall.
I know what’s underneath rock bottom.
More hell.
“Mr. Collins,” this pause has a polite throat clearing wedged in the middle, “you have a visitor.”
Finally, I acknowledge her presence with a look over my shoulder.
“Um…if you could just uh…,” she nervously fidgets with the edge of her scrubs, “follow me…that would be great.”
Newbie.
The stutters.
The nervousness.
The fact she isn’t sure whether to ask or command.
All that shit gives it away.
That and the fact that she looks like she graduated high school yesterday.
I abandon watching the blonde slink past the staff member of the facility she’s probably five minutes from fucking, slide my hands into my white linen pockets, and turn on my heels to head out of the room behind the newest warden in this bare bastille.
Being wordlessly led to the illusive visitor center “The Lodge” that’s a separate building, although still attached to the main one “Haven”, is so fucking welcomed.
Haven – this building –, is also where the deluxe suites like mine are aka “The Nests”, the common entertainment area for socialization “The Treaty”, the restaurant “The Harbor” – never to be called the cafeteria –, “The Pier” or “The Shops” depending on who you’re talking to – you know for your wardrobe or fucking decorating needs –, “The Tent”, the medical wing that’s right next to security, “The Gate” – gotta keep that shit locked up tight around a bunch of addicts like us –, “The Chat Rooms” for mandatory counseling sessions, and of course, “Paradise”, the outdoor recreational area not too far from “Harmony” the indoor rec space. The way everything is set up in this expensive prison, if you didn’t know any better – to be fair most people driving by the property don’t – you’d just think it was another high end, luxury getaway resort for those that want some R&R in the beautiful countryside.
The Lodge being close to the check in area, which looks identical to that of a hotel, speaks fucking volumes. It’s as if they placed it there so those who loved you enough to visit you can, but keeps them protected from catching what they believe to be plague. Except addiction isn’t a highly infectious disease you give to your loved ones from a handshake or a hug. It’s not a disease that can be passed around by simply staring into the eyes of someone who is one for too long. I get that, yeah, depending on where we are in our fucking struggle, we might need to be quarantined from functioning society, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t fucking people anymore.