My suitcase sits there on the seat next to me, mocking me. The last time I saw inside that thing was just before I left a week ago, when I put the goods in there. Don’t get high on your own supply. He keeps sending me away to get it and I put my life on the line every time I go. Part of me wishes I never came back. I could’ve stayed there, applied for a VISA. Disappeared from his sights, used his drug money to get the fuck out. I even learned some Dutch on the plane.

What is it about him that keeps making me come back?  He’s not magnificent looking. He’s not that smart. The only ambition he has is scoring drugs and selling it. He only uses his intelligence for keeping me in line. We don’t do much together, except for inject, argue, fuck. He can’t be that good in bed, can he? I’ll never know, but now I know it can’t be the heroin. I had plenty of that over there.

All I do is bend over and do what he says. He leads, I follow- that’s how it’s always been. I don’t know how much more I can take…

Someone else has pressed the button already, I get off at a bus stop near his place. I take a deep breath. Maybe today I’ll tell him it’s over.



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