****** EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING******* DEPICTIONS OF DOMESTIC BATTERY AND RAPE
*4 months later*
I got my own place. I loved my mom, but I had developed a bit of a coke addiction. I didn't want her to catch on, so I moved out. Nobody needed to know I was getting high, nobody could even tell. I wasn't looking like the stereotypical addict all bummy and like a derelict. I was what they called a functional addict. I called it my "cope" addiction.
I didn't feel the loss of Sam, of my family, of MYSELF when I was high.
Tris and I had started seeing each other after we kept running into each other in the oddest of places. We had hooked up, and he was my cope dealer. He called me his girl, or his shawty and I let him because, hey, free get high!
I worked, I was a front office assistant in a North Philadelphia NAC (Neighborhood Action Committee) I handled things like writing grants, Liheap and PGW applications, among other official things. I made mean pots of coffee, did store runs, anything my boss, Maribelle, required of me. I was also happy there, I got to create, organize and help people. Three things I loved doing.
I didn't go anywhere near my old life.
Thoughts of Sam, places we'd gone, things we'd done, they lived in me!
I'd often space out remembering certain things that happened, fun times and beautiful memories. Of course I still loved him and I knew I always would. But I had done things I could never take back, at least that's what I convinced myself.
When Tris and I fucked it was always quick, so so, and most nights after he left I would have to go into my stash, snort some more, fantasize and masturbate. Sam, of course, who else? Damn shame, considering I had well, someone. I couldn't call him my man He wasn't a man to me, especially after he told me what he really did for a living.
I thought he was a drug dealer! How dumb could I be!
He dressed sharp, he took care of himself, he drove an expensive tricked out Chevy Tahoe truck.
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That was all a part of the image he put out to get young, weak minded females to go with him.
It confused the hell outta me because if I ever got desperate enough to sell the pussy, well, I damn sure wouldn't turn over my loot!
Tris schooled me on the ins an outs of his "bizness" as he referred to it. I wanted no parts of it! I told him if I ever suspected him of tryna recruit me, I'd be in the wind so fast it'd blow his fedora off!
He referred to the girls he had as his Tricks, they were in his stable. A STABLE, his hoes were nothing more than some mares to his stud. They weren't shit to him. He didn't care if they lived or died stayed or left, as long as IF they came back, they came with his money then he was cool. If not, he'd beat them, and street them, or put them curbside. Curbside, like in trash pick up!
