I've always pondered on deaths door, but he's never opened. I could care less about the hell and heaven shenanigans, but death. I want it. The end of my life.
I want to be in my suit, in my coffin, in the ground and my soul to be gone. I've been wa...
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My palms hit the soft rug in my room. I have licked my last bag clean and I'm completely out of money. After I quit my job, I've been scavenging for money everywhere I go.
I'm currently picking at the carpet in search for some crystals I might have dropped. I pull out pieces of animal fur, fallen hair strands, lint, dirt, but no meth. Zain said he was five minutes away over two hours ago and we've agreed that I'll pay him later. I wouldn't put myself in dept, but I'm getting desperate.
I grab my phone off the nightstand, putting on the flashlight before I begin searching again. The light shines against the rug, yet I see nothing.
"Come on, come on." My fingers run through the rug until I feel something prick me. "Yes! Yes!" I see a spec of crystal shine with my phone flash. I pick it up and realisation hits me that this is not meth. It's glass. "No!" I throw it to the floor, standing up quickly as I walk up and down.
With shaky hands, I search for Zain's contact number. Zen Zain. I tap the button and it rings loudly. After the second ring he picks up with his voice calm, but it doesn't ease my nerves. "Where are you?" I scream in unexpectedly loud. "I can't make it, but you can come pick it up from Manhattan."
My lips part as I let out heavy breaths. "Manhattan? As in Manhattan that's about two hours away?" Zain's laugh echoes as he agrees to what I've said. "Oh, and I can't buy it for you."
This just keeps getting worse. My heart is beating through my chest and I just want my stuff. "Okay," I sigh. "Okay, I'll be there." He gives me the location.
Panic surges throughout me the minute I hear the sound of the call ending. I fling my phone onto my bed before ripping open my drawer, searching for my box of cigarettes. Opening the pack to see I've smoked more than I usually do.
The box only has two left, I sigh, quickly putting one in my mouth. Taking the lighter out of the box, I flick it desperately. I blow out a stream of smoke, finally exhaling, and the next panic begins.
I rip open clothing drawers in my room, pulling out the clothes stuffed inside. Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
I throw my paintings off the wall to see if I've hidden money behind them. Under the draws, in my shoes, under my mattress. Still, nothing! There has to be something in this room.
Sweat coats my forehead as cold spills through my bedroom window as I try to remember where I could've hidden money as a child.
Growing up, we weren't allowed money of our own. My dad said it's because he didn't want us spending it on things we never needed and if we needed money we should just ask him. After I turned sixteen was when I got my job, but my dad never gave me money unless it was for school.
