Book 4 of New York series
(Does not need to be read as a series)
"That's no way to treat me sweetheart. You claw at me when I give you pleasure."
"You stopped!"
"And?"
"And?! Whatever do you mean 'and?'?! Are you incapable of fulfilling my needs J...
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My ma used to read me stories growing up. I'd pretend not to care as my triplet brother and sister sat there, listening intently like their lives depended on it. Whilst I had my face to the wall and my blanket close to my nose, they'd sit eagerly ,crossed legged, on their beds with that intrigued look on their face as the words that left my ma's mouth enticed sounds of shock from them. A gasp here. A laugh there.
However, no matter how hard I tried not to be interested, each and every night I'd listen. I'd cling onto my ma's words like they were the gospel right up to the end and even when sleep overcame me, I gripped onto them. I tried to act uninterested. They were just silly stories anyway. A way to get us to go to sleep and no child wanted to go to sleep because that was their only small form of rebellion.
But, even when Blaise and Lilith had already fallen asleep, my ma would carry on until her gentle tone lulled me into my own sleep. She knew I listened. She knew I enjoyed it. My ma would continue reading her stories without forcing me to look or act interested.
And they were the best stories as well. Stories of adventure. Stories of friendship. Stories of betrayal. However, above all, they were stories of love. Twisted in every tale was that love that every child dreamed of finding and grew up searching for. Without a fail, whether it was a side subplot or a minute detail tucked in there, you'd find it somewhere.
My ma would always read me stories of that love. But the one love she never told me about was the love that I found. The one I fell hopelessly and wholeheartedly for.
The addictive love of a substance.
People don't expect to find love in forms of anything else besides the traditional type. The type which contains two people, kissing and marriage. People think of love and that's what pops into their mind, right?
I wished that was the love I became addicted to. My life would have been so much better if that was the case. But it wasn't. That wasn't the love I found comfort in. I found my love in the form of a substance. A huff of smoke. A drug. I fell for that addictive type of love and oh, did I fall hard.
Each inhale, each puff filled me with contentment. It gave me that hazy sense of mind that I went back and back and back for. It lured me in, trapped me and threatened to never let me go as it grip on me tightened every time I went back for more. And I didn't want to let go. Like a mother refused to let go of the baby she'd formed an unconditional sense of love for, I refused to let go of the drug I'd formed an unconditional sense of love for.
Each second of the day I craved it. I itched, I sweated, I begged for it. If it wasn't in my reach, I would be forced into a state of panic. Addiction was no joke when the thing you become addicted to was the thing which was slowly killing you and everyone around you.
For a good portion of time, I hid it well. Telling my parents I would be meeting some friends and then going to the local dealer, paying and getting high in some random area. I had a lot of freedom because they trusted me and I abused that trust by doing one of the only things no parent wanted their child to be doing.
