Sure, our house is nice enough from the outside after the remodel. It's lower-upper class, suitable to pass as an acceptable residence for a Whitlock. It's secluded enough that neighbors won't complain about the woman walking down the main street with her flavor of the day. Thick curtains ensure that the stains and a seven-inch rip on the three-seater couch remain hidden from prying eyes. No one will notice the coffee table, precariously balanced on a granola box; the circular dining table with just one seat, barely held together by duct tape; or the dried blood in the grooves of the tile floor and the shattered mirror in the downstairs bathroom—evidence of an incident where one of Dad's friends tried to kill him.
I’m so goddamn sick of living here and under my grandfather’s thumb. I’m sick of praying Mom doesn’t come home and that Dad won’t come knocking trying to grab cash or a couple grams of anything I have. And fuck Jonathan Whitlock Sr. for leaving me inthis godforsaken place with these horrendous people.
I drag my feet out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I can hear my bed calling me. Every cell in my body screams for sleep, nutrition, and more of what Tony gave me yesterday—in no particular order. But the last thing I want to do is sleep while Mom still remembers she has a house she and her friends can come back to.
The dirty wooden floors creak beneath my weight while I use the walls for support so I don’t go tumbling down the stairs.Left foot, right foot.Left foot, right.Left, right.
I don’t look up from my feet until I reach the door to my bedroom, and my stomach sinks into the ground.
It’s unlocked.
The handle is broken.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
I tear into the room and take stock, heart pounding in my throat. Everything looks untouched—at least, I think it is. It’s hard to tell. My collection of stolen items that ranges in the hundreds covers every inch of flat surface—watches, pencil cases, glasses, books, jewelry, hair clips, creams, a couple of thimbles. I turn toward the shelf beside my bed where everything I’ve ever taken from Kohen sits.
It all looks fine. Mom wouldn’t have come in here unless she wanted something. The last time she was here, she took my warmest jacket and best boots. The time before that, she grabbed a couple pieces of jewelry to pawn off. Before that, she found my stash of—
I lurch into motion, crashing down onto my knees beside the bed to reach behind the frame. But I don’t need to squeeze my fingers to get to it because the metal container is on the floor. Open.
Empty.
Fucking. Empty.
I snatch the container off the ground and hurl it across the room. It hits the hallway wall with a vicious thud, the sound echoing across the frigid room. The breeze from outside filters through my T-shirt covering the window, forcing a shiver out of me as tears sting my eyes.
“That bitch!” I rip my lamp away from the wall, letting it join the empty container.
That was meant to last me a month.
A whole fucking month.
It would have lasted longer if I didn’t get carried away with Tony last night. Last month, he discounted a couple grams for me to sell so I could make some cash. Does she realize how many wallets I stole and how much shit I pawned just to get all that?
Fuck her.
Fuck Kohen.
My eyes catch on the black T-shirt taped over my broken window.
And fuck Dad too.
I collapse to the ground and slap the floor.Fuck!
I can’t stay here and wait for morning to come when there’s nothing to do at night. Dad stole the last TV we had, and one of Mom’s dates for the night broke the modem. I can’t even afford a fucking laptop. I also don’t know what I might do if Mom comes back tonight. Yell? Scream? Shake her until she gives me back what she took?
I drank my body weight at Tony’s house last night, and it’s only Wednesday.
Fuck it. I’ve got nothing better to do, and I need to forget this shitty day. Snatching my phone off the floor, I call the only person I've contactedthis month.
Tony picks up on the third ring. How pathetic is it that my drug dealer is the only person who hasn’t let me down?
“I need a hit. I’ll owe you one.”
“Chug. Chug. Chug. Chug.”
The cold liquid goes down my throat without effort. I haven’t got a clue who’s chanting or how this drink ended up in my hand, but what I do know is that I well and truly owe Tony one.
