Smoke Me.

Chapter 7: Wet Grass

AN: This chapter until the tenth is from Jungkook's perspective. The eleventh, until the fifteenth, is from Namjoon's perspective again. And then it will be from Jungkook's once again. If the perspective changes, I will let you guys know.

This chapter was edited by jooniekingg.
On with the chapter:

I was bored.

Bored with the sun that continued hitting my eyes every day from the same angle. Bored with having the same conversation with my brother. Bored with the same green smoke that I couldn't function without.

The days I'd get my weed from Namjoon were like my birthday. The first day was heaven and yet I'd descend into hell as days passed by. I'd get more anxious, and more greedy with the amount I was smoking, and with how long I'd hold it in. If it was my last joint, then I would hold it in until I would choke.

I've been smoking for free. Well, I tried giving him money, but he preferred our deal instead. I couldn't say I minded since the money our parents left for my brother and me was mostly used for utilities, necessities, and food. What I got was barely enough for sweets, the few products I used and I'd rarely buy some new clothes.

My brother knew something was up, but he didn't confront me. As long as I was panic attack-free and I wasn't vomiting on his carpet, he left me be. Strangely enough, I was happy to be alone. Lonely? Sometimes.

But lately, my dealer has been following me.

He hardly blinked when I was around. I was feeling as if I was prey to a dangerous animal.

He frightened me sometimes, but I'd feel warm every time we spoke about normal stuff and my body would react to his every touch.

I was craving his touch as much as I wanted him to never come near me again.

I would avoid thinking about him after I'd get so high that I'd have to pay attention just to walk straight. I knew that my plan would weaken just along with my stash. And getting clean was just out of question.

The anxiety and panic attacks I'd get just by leaving the house or waking up were worse than any side effects. Except that the pills my psychiatrist used to give me before I overdid them, made me suicidal.

After smoking, I could still feel. But the pills made me feel nothing. No joy or pain, and it was the closest I felt to being a living corpse. Not being able to laugh or cry scared the living soul out of me.

The illegality of it bothered me. However, as long as there was any effect at all, as long as I had one second of relief, I would deny anything else and keep going.

But getting involved with any drug dealer was not a good idea, and I knew it. Even if I thought he was a good guy, the chance of getting caught went from ten percent to eighty every time I was around him. My paranoia skyrocketed when we were together in the middle of the day and went down as the night rolled around.

His eyes burned the back of my head when we were in class. I felt his breath on my neck as I stood on the rooftop even when he wasn't there. The only place I had in school had been literally stained because of him. I rubbed the wall clean. There was no evidence left from our last meeting. But I couldn't stop reliving the whole thing every time I'd look at it. I couldn't forgive myself for acting the way I did.

I was not a woman. Yet I couldn't as much as push him two centimeters aside.

I thought about getting physically fit or eating healthier merely so I could have little control over the way I was being treated.

Who am I kidding?

I could hardly stand for over ten minutes without considering sitting down to eat or falling asleep. And when I will inevitably have to stay sober, I will have to use all my time to study what I didn't for the rest of the year, and also, I will be especially sick and anxious. The idea itself leaped inside my mind every time he held me in any way, although later I attempted to do one single push up and I ended up falling asleep in the same spot.