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)
Or several.
Or in my case…never doing the right thing in my entire goddamn life.
Guess you can take the white coat off the shrink but can’t make the shrink give an actual fuck.
“There’s five more of these in this pack.”
“We that close to Halloween?”
He grunts at my snarky retort, shoves the candy back inside, and pulls out the real deal. The toy in the cereal box. The fucking pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I wish I didn’t salivate for. “And one of these.”
My tongue unconsciously starts bothering my lips again.
“This is what you really fucking want, right, Collins?”
He rightfully takes my silence as an admission.
“This is what it’s allllll about.”
I wanna look away.
Tell him to fuck off.
Pretend that just the smell of the unlit nicotine, the chemicals of calm as I learned to refer to them as, aren’t as fucking hypnotizing as they are. They’re basically a goddamn siren, and I’m the sailor ready to be led to my death.
My sweet, calming, long overdue death.
“Give me six sessions with the other stick feeding that monster inside, and on the last one, after it’s all complete, I’ll give you this one.”
I’ve made it 12 weeks without one of those, not that it was a fucking choice in the beginning. No. Every time I found someone to buy one from or managed to have one that fell into my lap, one of the busy body Nurse Ratched bitches would swoop in like the fucking Batman of drug abuse and sell my ass out.
Fuck, I miss how those bitches taste. How they hum on your tongue when you light them. The simple way they gracefully dance like those ballerinas in The Nutcracker all throughout your blood stream.
It’s pretty fucked up that he can just dangle the temptation out there.
He can’t actually mean the shit.
They wouldn’t give him that type of clearance.
Would they?
Is that the secret to getting smokes when no one’s watching?
Jump through the hoops like a good little circus freak and be rewarded behind the curtain?
My calloused hands find their way to my brown hair to give it a soothing pull. It’s become my coping mechanism for dealing with stress without the assistance of drugs. It’s uh…It’s actually how I handled my shit before that shit entered the scene. Before my life took the fucked up left turn into the shit storm tsunami that never seemed to lose steam no matter where I wandered to across the fucking country.
Still a slave ready to do the bidding for the demon that won’t die inside me, I slowly slide down against the wall until my white scrubs covered ass is on the ground, my legs are parted wide, and my eyes are staring back into the dark, soulless ones that have come to conquer me.
“I see we have a deal, Collins,” Doc states prior to putting the cigarette back into its sanctuary to swap it for the imposter. “Take this.”
Reluctantly, I catch the piece of candy soaring towards me.
With even more hesitation, I wedge it between my lips, immediately hating the chalky flavor I choke down.
“According to your file,” he begins, pages now actually being flipped as if being reviewed, “you’ve had a helluva good time. Booze. Coke. Molly. Acid. Tranqs. Shrooms. And from the looks of it, enough prescription pills to make a pharmacist blush.”
“Awe, are we gonna walk down memory lane together, Doc?” I tease, my attention on the disgusting mockery between my teeth.
“We are.”
Of course we are. It’s his fucking job. The typical questions will now proceed except this time I might actually answer them. Then again, I might fucking not. Depends on how by the book they are, and how many I can stomach before I decide completing my time here isn’t any more important than it’s ever been. The only real difference between this time and the last is this tatted biker in front of me. Finally taking a second to get my first real good look at him, it’s undeniable that he had to have been one at some point in his life. There’s a scorpion tattoo on his neck that could only belong to one kind of lifestyle.
I’d know.
I ran drugs for them for a bit.
Cash drops.
Chicks to their club and other clubs’ parties.
Cash, ass, or grass were all welcomed ways to pay.
“Let’s touch on your father…Derek.”
I swear my eyes roll all on their own. “Let’s not.”
“He covers your cost here, correct?”
“That’s what he’s fucking good at,” I verbally point out, vindictively smirking. “His real talent.”
Doc shifts his stare up to me.
“That sonofabitch is the master of paying for problems to disappear. You know an abortion here. Tramp stamp removal there. Hiring a PI to locate, capture, and force his black sheep son into a ‘substance rehabilitation country club’ to stop dragging their family name through the piss and shit he’d gotten pretty good at surviving in.” Another malicious grin is flashed. “Money makes everyone’s problems go away, Doc.”