It was going on a whole month. 31 whole days since I had left Mike and Vic's apartment with John. I stared at the passed out people all over the filthy house, John was in his "office". I knocked softly, I needed some form of companionship.

"What?!" He snapped, opening the door.
"I just wanted to be near you," I said quietly, though the actual idea of being near him thoroughly repulsed me.
"Come in," He pulled me through the doorway and sat down, pulling me into his lap.

Things with John were a significant amount of different than they were with Mike. Mike was just the right amount of rough, as where John had no limits. I could feel his erection underneath me already, but I was tired of having sex.

I was stuck on a permanent high. Where feelings rarely ever meant a thing to me. I never had time to miss my old life. I never had time to think about showering, or doing my hair, or even eating. All I had time for was inhaling cocaine and keeping John happy enough to keep supplying me with all the blow I could snort.

He pushed a glass of Jack Daniels into my hands and I shuddered knowing the fire from the whiskey would burn within me soon. I swallowed the remnants of the liquid, letting it settle at the lining of my stomach.

"What do you need?" He whispered seductively into my ear.
"Just hug me," I nearly pleaded.

He was tense with my reply. He wanted my answer to be him. He wanted me to want him twenty four hours a day, like he apparently wanted me. He pushed me off him, a look of disgust on his face. He waved me off, looking through some paperwork and shooing me away with one hand.

I licked my dry lips and rummaged through my pockets finding exactly what I needed. I sauntered into the bathroom, flicking the light on, gazing into the mirror as I shut the door. I looked like a skeleton. My hipbones were sticking through my sweatpants and my collarbones framed my dry brittle hair. My eyes were so deeply sunken in, and my lips were cracked and chapped.

The life was literally sucked out of me. I ceased my emotions and snorted three hefty lines. I had to stop the thoughts. I had to stop thinking about the decisions that led me to this broken down, dirty, druggy infested house.

The bathroom door opened, a stranger glancing at the toilet, silently asking me to leave. I didn't have anything anymore. I didn't have a heart, any feelings, anyone who cared about me. I walked into the small room John had designated me to, rummaging through my suitcase, searching for the one thing I had guiltily packed.

I felt the thick paper between two pairs of my jeans that no longer fit me. I pulled it out, staring at the picture in my hands. I looked at the dark skinned man I used to love, tattoos filling every inch of his skin. I looked at Jaime, who had no clue what I had been doing. The person who loved and trusted me unconditionally was kept in the dark, we were supposed to tell each other everything.

I finally let my eyes wander to my own face, seeing the fullness in my lips and the color of my naturally olive skin. I frowned, in the moment the feelings of the past and the present consumed me. They broke down the walls of the euphoria I had felt for a month straight and pierced through my heart.

I was afraid. I was sad. I was lonely and guilty. I hadn't even left any kind of explanation, for all they know I was probably dead in a ditch somewhere. I was missing my ex-boyfriend and best friend immensely, and the life I left was one I wish so desperately I could have back. The door opened harshly, John looking down at me wickedly.

"What's this?" He snatched the picture from my frail hands.

I was dead silent. Any wrong move could send him into a frenzy.

"Does someone miss what used to be?" He questioned sarcastically, I still hadn't looked at him.

I heard the tear before I seen it. My head snapped up and I shouted regretfully.
"Don't fucking rip it!" I blurted.

I swear his hand was around my throat before I could squeak out a word.

"Listen to me bitch," He hissed, "I supply you with your sweets, you listen and do whatever the fuck I say."
"It's all I have left, John," I said sadly.
"I didn't force you to leave that fucked apartment, you willingly followed," He reminded me bitterly.

I was silent, he was right.

"They didn't want you anymore, they were bored of you, and you seen that didn't you B?" He whispered harshly.

I was still silent. It was also true, Mike was bored with me, tired of having to pull my dead weight everywhere he went. Tired of supplying me with drugs that furthered my pathetic existence. No one missed me, John was right. No one was worrying about where I was, or what I was doing.

I was fooling myself. The last month was probably a God-send for the boys, they were free of dealing with the constant nuisance of a person who was of no use to them. I succumbed to John and let myself dangle from his grip.

"Get it together," He shoved me against the wall.

Why was I even living any longer? What kind of purpose was I fulfilling? My body was being used and abused, my brain had been shut down to a level where I did only what I needed to survive. My life was a pile of dog shit that had dried and baked in the hot summer sun, and when someone tried to shovel it into the trash-can, it split into two.

I looked at the scattered photo confetti of a picture that held memories of good days for me. Those memories remained, only blurred and in black and white. I didn't have any of those keeping me alive anymore, I didn't have anything to keep me running on E. I was running off fumes, ready to run out any time soon.

I let myself lay on the dusty, dirty, hardwood floor of my "bedroom" and stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling. 'I should've gotten clean', I told myself, 'things would've been better.'