He grins, a gap-filled crocodile grin, as though he’s both proud to be the bearer of whatever horrible gift they have in mind for me and covetous of it. He produces a tiny clear packet. Inside, gathered at the bottom is an off-white granulated powder. He flicks the bag back and forth with his finger, shaking all the loose dust back down and then he opens it and tips a little out onto a spoon that rests on the coffee table. There’s a lit candle nearby, adding to the dimness and the morbid intimacy of the room, as if they were trying to soften the things they do to me by not using the overhead florescent lighting.
I watch on with dread as he mixes the powder with a liquid and holds the spoon over a flame, and for a brief moment I think he’s going to brand me with the metal, but then my blood turns cold in my veins as I see him lift a needle and suction up all of the cloudy fluid.
He stands, and my whole body screams at me to run, but I’m too late. My father is there holding me down while the other man, the one who never speaks, ties his belt tight around my skinny arm until my flesh is pinched between the leather, and I can feel the terrible strength in his hands. I kick and fight, and I glare up at the silent one, because somehow this betrayal is made that much worse by his cold stoic face looming over me. I wonder how many girls he’s done this too, how many children he’s strangled the life out of while his face remained unmoved. There’s not even the barest hint of pleasure or pride in what he’s doing, just a nothingness and a void of humanity reflected back at me from his ice blue eyes. That’s what I stare at—the nothingness in his gaze as the needle pricks my skin. The jab is hard, and I feel the smallest trickle of blood escape and run down my arm, and then the room spins. The pain is gone. I itch, but I don’t scratch. I’m buzzing. I’m weightless. I’m free.
When I wake, I’m no longer weightless. My limbs are leaden and every muscle in my body aches. There’s a tightness in my chest, as though a great weight has been placed upon it.
I open and shut my eyes several times before I’m able to focus, and I find myself not in my room like I first expected, but in the lounge room. Alone. My legs tremble as I stand. The ache in my lower abdomen throbs, and when I glance down I see not just a little blood smeared between my legs, but I’m covered in it, ankle to upper thigh.
My head spins and a myriad of images slam into me from the previous night, but only one resounds in my skull like the clanging of church bells. The one with black eyes had a knife. Not a big hunting knife; he was more careful than that. A black-handled Swiss Army knife, and he knew how to use it well. He’d waited until last, until the others had had their fill. He told them he was “ensuring that I didn’t run out of juice”, but I doubt any of them cared enough to pay either of us much attention.
My father had shot up in front of me before hitting me again with the same needle. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours after the first. And just like the first time, all my worries had faded, ripped away by the pull of the drug as it flowed through my veins once more.
Each step I take now is heavy. The ache becomes an all-out throbbing pain, and there is fresh blood between my legs. When I reach the front door, I’m barely standing. It’s not locked, which surprises me, and I’m blinded by light as I pull it back and step naked out onto the front porch. Everything is gleaming and shiny: green grass and shrubs shot through with blue sky, and a bright yellow sun lighting the world on fire before me. At the house across the street, a neighbour waters his hedges. His back is to me, and I lift my arm to get his attention as I step off the ledge. My legs give out. The last thing I see before I fall is my father’s face as he blocks my body from view of the neighbour. I throw up my hands to ward him away. They’re covered in blood. He bundles me up in his arms and I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. And then my brief glimpse of the outside world is ripped away with the slamming of our front door. The pain finally becomes too much for my tired body to bear.
I slip away, and when I wake again, fevered and writhing in agony, screaming and calling out for death, the jab of the needle in my arm and the liquid injected into my veins is the only solace I find.
When I wake, my cock is rock hard and my whole body throbs with the need to come. Ivy isn’t around, but her scent is on my pillow because she’s spent the last two nights in my bed, and she smells so fuckin’ good. I didn’t have time to buy her any of that girly shit, so she’s been using my generic shampoo and sandalwood soap. She smells like me and that prospect excites me a little too much. I hear her out in the kitchen, bangin’ pots and pans, and I smile, thinkin’ about her out there cookin’ up breakfast for the two of us. It’s nice havin’ a woman in my kitchen, in my bed. Even a fuckin’ detoxing junkie.
I slide my hands over my chest and down my stomach. Gripping my dick in one hand, I stroke it, hard, and I close my eyes. I think about propping her up on the kitchen bench and eating her out for breakfast. Spitting in my palm, I slide it over the head, mixing the fluid with the pre-cum and relishing in the wetness of my calloused hand. I tug at my balls in an effort to stop the fuckers from shrinking up inside my abdomen. I quicken the pace, milking my cock, imagining it’s her sweet cunt sliding up and down the length of me.
My orgasm smacks into me. Cum shoots out of my cock and lands on my stomach, running over the side of my oblique and staining the bed sheet.
I glance over at the door. Ivy’s cheeks are pink. Her eyes are hungry, her mouth forms a cherry-lipped “O” and her gaze follows the line of cum dripping off my side onto the bed.
“You wanna come lick it up, darlin’?”
She scowls and narrows her eyes on my face. “We’re out of coffee,” she snaps and saunters away, her hips swaying rhythmically. Fuckin’ tease.
Her words sink in. Fuck. I’m gonna have to make a run to the store, which means dragging her with me. That or leaving her here by herself, but I don’t know for certain that she won’t try and make a run for it. And I sure as shit ain’t going to take her back to the clubhouse until I have a few more things sorted with the boys, and I know that she’s in a better place. I throw back the covers and stalk across the room, running the shower and stepping beneath the spray. Hot water needles my back, and I let it wash away the sticky cum covering my stomach. I’d like to coat her in it, mark her body as mine and carry on with all that alpha bullshit that most men get fuckin’ hard-ons for, but that would lead us right back to square one.
Life was so much fuckin’ easier when Ivy was high, moonin’ over Kick, and came to my bed when she wanted to be used. Now it’s all twisted as fuck.
I dry myself off and throw on a pair of jeans, running my hands over my hair to shake off the moisture, and then I head down the hall. Ivy’s sitting on my couch dressed only in the T-shirt and panties she wore to bed last night as she spoons cereal into her mouth. I glance over at the kitchen island and notice she’s left out the cereal and the milk, and that breakfast I thought she was cooking for us hasn’t happened.
“Where the fuck’s breakfast?” I say, because apparently I appreciate the idea of having my balls cut off by an angry junkie. She just glares at me. And I roll my eyes, because I know breakfast isn’t going to make itself, and Ivy sure as fuck isn’t going to make it either. I glance at the shitty cereal box and turn my nose up at the fruity rings of fuck knows what. I can’t handle that much sugar this early in the morning.
Ivy stands, draining the rest of the milk from her bowl, and my cock goes from flaccid to rock hard in zero-point-five.