𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 | ᴋᴅɢ

6.

A week later.

"How do you feel?" Ms.Carla asked, staring at Kentrell.

"Fine." He mumbled, a bored expression on his face.

He was currently at his check up meeting, just to see if he was progressing and to restock on his prescribed medicine.

To tell the truth, he ain't changed a bit since he'd left. He never did. He'd had the same sick, twisted mind for as long as he could remember.

He couldn't recall one time when he felt normal, okay, content with life. It was always an urge or random feeling that made him do bad things. And he didn't like that, that wasn't normal.

Of course, other people did bad things. Steal, kill, be rude to others, things like that. But Kentrell was far worse. He tortured animals and people, his pain struck much deeper than the ones he tortured though.

Not that he cared the amount of pain he inflicted on anyone, because nobody ever cared how much they brought on him.

He felt like he owed happiness to no one. People were never satisfied anyways, that why he didn't like people.

Humans were greedy. Whether it was for fame, clout, money, drugs, alcohol, whatever. People over did and over used everything, they were never and would never be satisfied.

He could give the people around him millions of dollars, put them in houses and give them nice cars, and they'd still want something more.

He could put out hundreds of singles, mixtapes, albums and merch, but yet, his fans would still want more.

Out of everyone though, Kentrell loved his fans. He'd give them whatever he could. He loved that people who didn't even know him, loved him the way they did.

The attention, love, and appreciation they showed him for the projects he put out, was the only reason he still made music.

His fans supported him through whatever. Whether it was against random ass blogs, gold diggers, clout chasers, unnecessary beef with others, they were behind his back ten fold.

There was nothing he felt he could do to thank them, other than put out music. So that's what he did. That's the reason he was still a rapper, because he was thankful for them, and felt like it was owed.

"Kentrell?" Ms.Carla called, seeing that he'd zoned out.

"I'm tired." He mumbled, his face resting on his palm.

"Of? If you don't mind me asking.." She trailed off, and he chuckled.

"Everything. Nothing in specific." He shrugged, his eyes low, high on his prescribed meds.

"Is there something you could change to fix that?" She asked, and he shook his head no.

"Ain't no point. I ain't never gone be satisfied." He carelessly spoke, pulling at his dreads.

"Why not? What are you looking for Kentrell?" She questioned, her eyebrows furrowed.

His eyes pierced into hers, searching for nothing in particular, zoning out again.

"Ima see you next time." He mumbled, standing up, and she shook her head at him, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

"Will you talk next time?" She asked, and he chuckled.

"Maybe." He said, reaching in his pocket and sitting a stack of money on her desk.

"I don't need that sweetheart." She chuckled, coughing into her hand, turning her head.

"Keep it. Go to da' docta' and make sure you okay. I don't want nothin' happening ta' you." He spoke in his heavy accent, and she gave him a small smile.