Page 82 of Wallflower

Leaning over the side of the bed, I shuffle through my suitcase. I don’t normally huff my own supply, but fuck this endless torment.

I always carry a small amount of product with me, in case anyone needs persuading into a deal. It doesn’t happen very often, but it’s better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.

I find the bag I’m looking for, fishing it out of the sea of clothes. Sitting up in bed, I flick on the shitty hotel TV, and hope to fuck there’s snacks worth the astronomical price in the mini fridge beneath it.

A small bag of coke falls to my lap when I slide the zipper open.That’s the last fucking thing I need.

Slipping it back into place next to the others, I grab all the fixings for a fat doob.

Maybe I should call for room service beforehand, but as I glance sidelong at the clock, I know there’s nothing available at 4:17 am.

Nothing good, anyway.

Without a doubt, my mind wanders. I fight against it, focusing on the grinder in my hand. Twisting it like it’s personally wronged me. If I don’t, she’ll materialize like a spectre.

Rose, my sister, or Lonnie.

It doesn’t matter who.

No matter what, I’m fucking haunted.

Rose is the lesser of the evils, so I let her in. Casting open every door, window, and entrance to my mind. Letting her flood me. Drown me. End me.

My tongue drags across the rolling paper, wetting the adhesive strip as I wrap it tight.

I tuck the joint behind my ear. Opting to clean everything up before I become a mindless husk that melts into the mattress.

I close up my suitcase before striding across the room. Opening the balcony door, I step outside into the warm tropical air. Slipping the joint between my lips, I spark the tip. Breathing deep, I let the smoke fill my lungs.

The haze descends quickly, settling over me in a comfortable fog. I flop down into the deck chair and watch the twinkling stars.

My thoughts are scattered, incoherent musings of a weed-soaked mind, but one holds on. Growing into a deliciously dark idea.

Rose wants me to show her what I’m made of, and I’ve just figured out how to do it in a way that won’t turn my stomach. I’m not going to examine why, in the heat of the moment today, I didn’t want to hurt her by unleashing some of the darkest shit I could. I refuse to touch that with a ten foot pole. I don’t need to be further unsettled.

But this?

The images conjured awaken a needy pulse in my cock.

I’m sick, selfish, sadistic.

I’ll carve my name upon her skin so she’ll never be able to belong to another. No one will want her. Rose will have to stay with me.

My flower. My escape. My work of fucking art.

I finish off the joint, inhaling the last drags deep into my chest before stubbing it out.

The theme song to my favoured cop sitcom plays from the TV, beckoning me back to bed. I oblige, locking the balcony door before flopping down into the blankets in nothing but my ‘Warning! May contain nuts’boxers.

Heavy pressure settles above me, mattress dipping with a shifting weight. Something attempts to pull me from the deep confines of burnout induced slumber. My mind resists, desperately clinging to the sleep I finally managed to blissfully drift into.

Fuck off, I need the rest.

An object rocks against me, sinking my hips deeper into the mattress. My head is heavy, eyelids heavier. I’m too exhausted to wake, too burnt out to care. The tendrils of the reefer haze still linger, coaxing me back to tranquil oblivion.

“Wake up, I need you.” Her voice like venom paralyzes me. Heat sinks down over my shaft, a soft feminine moan urging me to re-enter consciousness. A body comes down over mine, moving my dead weight, and pinning my wrists over my head.

I whimper. My child-like cry for help quickly smothered by a hand over my lips.