Emotionally Compromised (#1) (Available On Amazon) [Preview]

Chapter 10 - Losing Control

MARCUS GIBBS

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            I am on edge from my withdrawals and it has me feeling unstable. You are a scientist for gods sake Gibbs, you can do this, get a hold of yourself. The drug doesn't control you, you control the drug!

            I let my knee wobble up and down as I sit on this lumpy leather couch taking in the surroundings.  I am in some kids dump of an apartment in Southie in the metro area of Boston. The walls are plastered with shitty movie posters. The carpet looks stained from repeated bong water spills, mixed with cigarette burns. The area reeks of stale smoke and incense.

            "Care for a line?"

            "Huh?" Is he talking?

            "I said: do you want to hit this?"

            My eyes bounce up and come in contact with Steve Wilkinson's surprisingly sprite crisp stare. I watch him twitch his own cigarette between his smug lips. I always have the urge to beat the shit out of this guy, but don't turn down the offer.

            "Yea, sure. Thanks," and I grab the rolled up twenty dollar bill.

            I lean down and use it to inhale the crystal white line off of his surprisingly clean coffee table. It's the only clean surface in the apartment. It's obvious what he finds most important.

           His eyes are a sky blue, and matched with his attitude problem he tends to remind me of Jeremy. I think that is what annoys me most about the guy. He obviously gets a lot of ass since most days when I pick up there is always a new blonde leaving his apartment, must be nice, –douchebag. Though maybe their drug addicts too?

            Steve Wilkinson is a young guy; younger than me at twenty-three. He is built like a line backer, but sharp as a knife –surprisingly–. I know this kid to do every drug from marijuana, and acid to cocaine, and DMT. The kid is a nut job. He dropped out of Tufts University because he figured he could make more money and get more ass while selling drugs. He's smart as hell with numbers, but dumb as fuck, obviously. His deep cocky voice always irks me because he acts like he has it all, but its all a matter of his stupid perspective. His apartment is a shit whole, but his pride and joy is that bright red corvette in the driveway. Boy, cars are over rated...but drugs on the other hand...

            He has the same dominating attitude as Jeremy, and that is what fucking bothers me about the guy, but at least he can be funny as hell, and I think if he didn't remind me so much of my back stabbing best friend, he might be a fun replacement; besides being a drug addicted college drop out, of course.

            Today though, I was aching for more coke, and to get into some trouble.

            "What's eating you man? You seem on edge?"

            On edge? ON EDGE? You have no fucking idea, asshole.

            Without considering the consequences combined with my sudden high he says, "A girl twist ya' balls or somethin'? A broad break ya' hea't?"

            His thick Bostonian accent mixed with his terrible assumption is enough for me to think horrible, terrible things. I look down at the table and see his pocketknife and consider momentarily teaching this boy a lesson by running the blade across that arrogant face of his. –did I just think that? – I shake my head and focus.