A love story
Chapters with * next to the number may contain sensitive content.
WARNING: contains strong language, violence, sexuality, emotional trauma, drug use, and other content suited for mature audiences. Don't read if you're a pansy.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do NOT support the use of heroin or any other hard drugs. I am not glorifying them. I am expressing how these situations can be very real and showing how badly they can hurt the people you love. I've experienced the pain drug abuse brings, my love goes out to anyone who knows the destruction and chaos this addiction creates.
Also, i wrote the majority of this when I was 15/16, and I'm 18 now trying to go back and fix this hot mess lmao so the first few chapters kinda suck, but just like hang in there :')
FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE PRESENT TOLD THROUGH THE EYES OF A CRIMINAL
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I became a killer at fourteen.
There wasn't any screaming or struggle. The man who I shared no acquaintance with prior to this moment was so still that he blended in with the bloody cement, as his searching eyes stared deeply into the depths of my tortured soul. I wanted him to speak to me, to know the nirvana before death. I wanted him to explain it to me, but I was undeserving. I was too calm, my face stoic and unmoved. My heart beats didn't quicken, the pace remaining a steady, collected pump...pump...pump.
There was a brief pause in time as he died, a momentary crack in the emotionless shield I hid myself beneath every day. It was when his eyes fluttered shut, his age-stained face soft and accepting of the events unfolding before him. He had a name-tag on his uniform shirt. His name was George.
I felt throbs of panic as he faded out. I had wondered if it was too late to go back, even though I knew that it was and that no silly entertainment of the thought could reverse my past. But still the thought lingered, even as he died on the concrete ground in a gloomy alley two streets down from my apartment. My partner, Bobcat, had accompanied me that night. But in those days, people called her Roz.
"What...what do I do now?" I stammered breathlessly, my two rounded eyes following the thin rivulets of blood soaking through the wrinkles of his shirt.
Roz had her fingers scrunched into her big blonde mess of hair, scratching her scalp with quiet anxiety. She wanted me to think she was calm, like she did this all the time. "Well, you gotta get rid of the body, kid." I had just committed murder. The gravity of this realization had not caught up to me yet, but it was starting to sink in.
He was dead. Dead. As a doornail. I felt his spirit escape when my boots flew into his torso, when my kicks cracked the bones in his face and unleashed a spill of blood that stained his white button down. I could still feel the stretch of his skin when my hands wrapped around his sagging neck and choked his soul out of his skin. He was nothing but a shell now.
"Well?" Roz prompted, elevating her right brow, which sported a shiny piece of metal in it.
"The ocean?" I hated how the words left me with the intent of needing an answer, because I wanted her to think I could collect myself too, in times like this. I wanted her to keep me in the gang with her and the rest of the girls, even if that meant pretending I was fine with death. The shock of the entire situation had numbed me quite well, but I feared the wave of existential guilt that would consume me later that night when I was alone.
