Even Heroes Have Scars

[32] Drug

Ansley's P.O.V.

After Demi left, I slipped on some flip flops and a light sweater, even though it was still the end of August. I texted Jacob that I was going out and that I'd be back by one, but in all honesty, I didn't even know where I was going. I just grabbed my phone, purse, and keys, and left.

Autopilot. That was what they called it when your body takes you somewhere without you acknowledging it. Oblivion. And in ten minutes, I was at the gas station, standing in front of the gray marble counter with a red pack of Marlboro cigarettes in my hand. I used one of the twenty dollar bills to pay for it, accepting thirteen dollars even back in change.

"Have a nice night," the woman behind the counter smiled and waved at me as I exited the building.

"Sell your life, huh?" a male voice stopped me in my tracks as my hand gripped the door handle of my car.

I glanced around the area and spotted a man wearing a red hoodie and jeans leaning against the brick wall of the gas station, eyeing me curiously as a cigarette dangled from his lip.

"What?" I rose an eyebrow.

He chuckled and pulled the cig from his mouth, holding it between two fingers as he scratched his gray beard.

"How old do I look? Sixty? I'm forty and this is what smoking does to a person," he exhibited himself to me.

I opened the car door. "Well, I won't live long enough for it to matter anyway," I said as I plopped into the divers seat, shut the door, put the key in the ignition, started the car, and rolled down the window as the man continued to talk.

"Not with those cigs you ain't. But why don't you live a little tonight?" he approached the car and I gave him a disgusted look.

"Back away from me."

"Why?" he grew closer.

"I'm driving away now," I clicked on my seat belt and shifted the car into Drive. "Have a good night."

"Pussy!" the man yelled as he shoved his cigarette between his teeth again, disappearing in my rear view mirror.

As I was stopped at a stop light, I kept the window down and pulled a cigarette out of the small Marlboro box, placing it between my teeth, my lips also supporting it, then grabbed the tiny lighter from a side pocket in my purse, and lit the cigarette before returning the lighter back to my purse and speeding through the now green light. In less than ten minutes, my car was parked in John's driveway and I was standing on his front porch, knocking at the door. John was my drug dealer. His house smelled of smoke and whiskey. In a cabinet in his kitchen he had a shelf of cocaine and heroine, along with another shelf of vodka, whiskey, beer, and, in his nightstand drawer, a bunch of condoms. Don't ask how I knew all of this. Let's just say that when I had just received the news about Dawson's passing, I needed to make money somehow, even if I had to face my fears and sell my body. I had to support Jacob. This was before I got my night job.

"Ansley," he opened the door and leaned against it, whiskey in his breath. "Haven't seen you in a while. Thought I lost a loyal customer. What brings you here?"

I chuckled fakely, but I knew he was drunk so he wouldn't notice the fakeness. In my hand was the pack of cigarettes, minus the one that was held in my mouth.

"You want a trade?" he pointed to the box.

"A couple grams, please?" I asked, hopeful.

He tore the box from my hands and opened it. His expression was not what I'd hoped for, as he frowned and shut the box, tossing it at me, but due to my lack of coordination, I failed to catch.