Never Enough

3.

This is so fucked up, and I can't believe I am using Harry's death as my fucking way back in.

But as he used to say... "Take whatever opportunities ya get because ain't no one else gonna help ya if ya don't help yourself."

I sigh and wipe the back of my hand roughly against my face trying to not cry pathetically as I stand in the bathroom of the private jet I'm currently on, flying to an air force base just outside of London.

Maybe wiping my face so hard wasn't the best idea with this busted lip and swollen eye, but fuck it.

I needed the pain to try and focus.

I also need a buzz. Nothing extravagant. I don't know if my old contacts are still around as I haven't been home for a few years. I'll soon find out once I dial up old Charlie and see if he's still out of prison.

I unwrapped a pad from my bag before tucking the plastic wrapping over the smoke detector, ensuring it stuck. The last thing I fucking need is getting a bollocking for smoking on a plane.

I stuff the unwrapped pad in the bin, peeling it from my hand as I try to flick it off unsuccessfully, hence the peeling, before I put the toilet lid down and slump down onto it...

As if period tax wasn't bad enough, I just threw good money in the bin. What a waste of a good pad.

"Fuck this shit," I mumble as I pull out my lighter and second packet of smokes for the day from my bag on the small counter and unwrap the ciggie box.

I ball the clear plastic wrapping in my fist and that little bit of papery foil that's so satisfying to pull off before pulling out a delicious cancer stick and sparking up, closing my eyes and taking a long deep drag on the toxic fumes.

The plastic crumpled, making that crisp noise that sounded almost satisfying but also reminded me that I really needed to cut back on the ciggies.

But not today.

I sigh as I reopen my eyes and look at the plane bathroom door in front of me.

No stains on this door, unlike some of the more unsavoury commercial airlines I've been on. Ibiza for twenty quid return from Stansted ain't all it's cracked up to be when you're sat next to some drunken teenager trying to hit on you. 

Oh, wait... 

That was me. 

Soz, my bad...

I throw my lighter back at my overly stuffed bag with the packet. I will definitely need those later if I'm going to get through today.

I wonder if the box of two hundred ciggies in the overhead compartment above my seat will be enough for the week... Probably not... Definitely not at the rate I'm smoking today. I should have gotten Winston to get at least two.

The nicotine rush calms me, but as I tighten the wrapping from the packet in my fist, turning my knuckles white, my rage takes over, and the nicotine isn't enough to calm me any more.

I grit my teeth, biting down into the filter stuck between them, and slam my balled fist into the panel next to me, popping it open.

"FUCK!" I mumble through my teeth as the whole thing falls off the wall and clangs noisily against the floor as I jump up.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This is meant to be an expensive private jet, not some shit piece held together with duct tape.

Fumbling around with it, I manage to get it back on, but it's pretty obvious someone's punched it, especially with the fresh blood splatter that now prettily adorns it.