lost [editing/rewriting]

𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

After working for a couple of hours (also known as standing around behind the counter and passing time), I'm on my way to Nathan's.

We have two known drug dealers in River Bay; Nathan, and Amanda. Then there's me who got known for selling drugs and alcohol cheap to minors when I was desperate right around 18. Before you call me a bad person, know I was trying to move from Theresa's house and stop being a financial burden as quickly as possible. Now you can call me a bad person, because that doesn't really justify it.

Not that Nathan and Amanda never sell to minors, it's just that they have put up some unknown rules as to not get caught. Parents in River Bay are either abusive and couldn't give less of a fuck about their kids doing drugs, or they love their kids to death and will hunt down whoever sold to them and put them in prison for a lifetime, preferably more.

Then they have other rules, individual after their own values, of course. Amanda is this sweet, blonde, former cheerleader, always with a smile on her face. Probably the last person you'd expect to be selling drugs. She and one of my best friends used to be an on and off thing, so I know her pretty well, which also means she doesn't want to sell me anything. 

Nathan, however, is the embodiment of not giving a fuck. And by not giving a fuck, I mean not giving a fuck. At all.

Sam's more I don't give a fuck about your opinion. Nathan's the type to sit on the couch 24/7, smoking an ungodly number of cigarettes and drinking hand sanitizer once the alcohol runs out because he can't be bothered about the taste or safety as long as he gets to be constantly drunk.

Honestly? I wish that was me. How fucking nice to just not care about anyone or anything. To have a stable job that, sure, might land you in prison, but who cares, right? 

I mean, I guess that's the place people I've known who died from drugs were a couple of months before their death, so maybe I shouldn't want to be there and maybe I should be worried. 

But honestly, Nathan's been like this since I've known him, and that's five years. And contrary to Amanda, he basically only does drugs at parties. If anything, he'll get lung cancer or alcohol poisoning or something and die.

But... I guess I've gotten desensitized, which is stupid because this is death we're talking about. Memories of Aaron was what started this two week fog so I think I'll try not to think about that, but the death of drug addict friends? Traumatic when they die in front of you, sure. It's not like I never shed any tears, I still do sometimes, but it's so expected. So inevitable. 

Maybe that's why I'm picking up more Xanax now despite having gone through the worst parts of withdrawal. Stopping now and putting the money into therapy could give me a better life, but after, what, 8 years of drug addictions I just feel like a relapse is inevitable.

I think this mindset is what Sam meant, why I shouldn't quit cold turkey. He definitely didn't mean that I should continue doing it, but I'll take it as that to justify it.

It's October, and River Bay October's aren't very forgiving. And as usual, I'm being an idiot and I'm not wearing a jacket, despite being chronically cold, like, always. 

So I'm walking down the windy main street of River Bay, the one that passes all the important sights (note my sarcasm); the hospital, the River Bay Mental Health Treatment Center (I've never been there, but I've heard it's a whole other level of hell), the town square, the high school, the dance studio (this one might be the only good place in River Bay, considering there actually are some successful dancers that got trained there), the big grocery store, and the red bridge passing over to the rich River Bay, also known as Nettlefield.

But I guess I'm... grateful, that I'm here and not in Nettlefield anymore. This might be a terrible place, but at least it's the so bad it's funny type. Its shabby looking buildings and grey skies screams of a mediocre town. 

Nettlefield, on the other hand, is this pretty place with huge forests and not too far from the mountains. It's the type of place you expect your widowed grandmother to live, peaceful, quiet, awful internet. 

It's deceiving, which only makes it worse. 

Once I've passed the dance studio, I turn left, into a block of all grey villas in a row. Small, pretty sad-looking, but I honestly wouldn't mind living here.

Nathan and his four or five roommates (which is pretty excessive considering this house is seriously tiny) has no indication of what house it theirs, nor can I ever remember the number. So I go after my gut, and knock on the door.

"Door's open if it's Aiden," Nathan yells hoarsely from inside. "If it's not, I've got a gun." 

I step inside and pull my beanie back. It might be dark outside, but somehow it's darker in here. Probably because of the thick layer of cigarette smoke. Thankfully, the livingroom's straight ahead. 

The TV, mounted on the wall right by the entrance, is the only thing lighting up the room. Nathan's laying on the couch, blowing out smoke when I come in. "Check the boxes." He waves his cigarette towards the window behind him. "Send me the money when you have it." 

I blink. "Really?" 

"Came from a shady place," he says. "Wouldn't take much if I were you." 

I hate myself a little for finding that... intriguing, I guess. Taking too much and see what happens. Maybe I'll have hallucinations, maybe I'll sleep for a week, maybe I'll die. Who knows? 

Kell's probably the only reason I won't. I mean, seeing someone dying isn't exactly the most pleasant thing. 

I search through the carton boxes. It's actually astonishing that he keeps drugs like this. I mean, I wouldn't even keep my weed like this out of paranoia, and that's legal. But River Bay's never wasted much resources on drugs. They've done this opposite thing of every place else; focus on mental health and basically imprison them at the treatment center while not giving a single fuck about drug addicts.

Well, a few fucks are given. But trust me; I've been arrested for drug possession a few times, and it never went further than just don't do it again.

"Short guy was here the other day," Nathan tells me.

"Florian?" 

"That's the one." He takes another long drag of his cigarette, and I'm the one coughing. "Asked about you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Said he was worried you'd died." 

Ah. This again. "They tend to be." 

Nathan just nods, completely uninterested. 

After what feels like way too long to be searching through three carton boxes full of packages, Nathan speaks again. "It's in boxes. Two milligrams."

I raise my brows. "Two?"

"Just break them if it's too much." 

Is he kidding me? I need, what? Nine, ten a day? This just means I need to swallow less pills. Thank god.

Or, well, I don't think god particularly agrees with my drug habits.

There. 

Five boxes. Damn. Still won't last me long which is... sad, to say the least. 

"I'll pay you as soon as possible, swear" I say as I try to stuff them in my pockets and fasten them inside my jeans, hidden under my shirt.

Of course I'd expected to pay right now, but, I mean, I kind of need food too, and he gets that. Wow. He might actually give one fourth of a fuck. Maybe you can't escape giving just a little of a fuck when you're human.

"Sure," is all he says.

"Take care," I say on my way out. Obviously, I only get an mhm as a response.