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Ghost
Pulling my achy body from the bed I so seldom sleep in, I seem to just lay there scratching for a new hit. A new high, I need more to take me further to the edge of the abyss the sweet taste brings me.
For me the shaking is the worst symptom of withdrawal. ‘Dope sickness’ is what it's called, symptoms include shaking, sweating, nausea, vomiting, muscle pain, and the itchy need to get high. I have to work today, I have to ink. I'm booked in for a six-hour straight slot, so I’ll need to take a sweet hit before I start. Tomorrow I’ll try again to get clean, try to say no to the craving that haunts me. I’ll try once more to ignore that taste that sits at the back of my throat, taunting me day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute.
Why is it so hard to resist? Why can’t I just say no? Pulling myself together, I splash ice-cold water over my face, zapping me back to the now, to the task at hand. I'll stop by my dealer’s place on the way to my shop to score a little powder. Looking forward to a nice hit of coke to get the day started places a smile on my face.
Pulling my jeans on, I head for the door locking it as I go. Kicking my bike to life, I feel her hum underneath me, god she feels good between my legs. The soul-soothing purr of her against my thighs is better than a good hit of cocaine. If only I could ride her on the wave of this downward spiral of drugs and anger.
I use drugs to mask the dark thoughts and the fucked-up memories floating around in my demented brain. The life I live as the club’s in-house tormenter, it's eating me alive. I'm constantly fighting with these dark demons that are coursing through my soul. I’m always looking to spill more blood, cause others pain, and on the hunt for more drugs to chase away the nightmares that live inside my head. The devil that claws its way through my soul to exit my body and rain torment and torture onto the bastards who choose not to follow the laws of my club. They will endure my wrath. My own soul be damned as I'm guilty of it all. I'm the punisher and executioner to the stupid souls who do not play by the rules.
How much more of this I can take is yet to be decided.
I’m crumbling at the hands of the dark though, as the days go by. I need a new distraction; one that doesn’t involve a needle filled with liquid gold or a line of coke.
Pulling out onto the road from the compound, I travel the road that will take me through Queens, my old stomping ground. I like to remind myself just where I came from, oh and to also catch a glimpse of the young lady that walks so hunched over, nervous, and jittery. Normally I'm such a strong-willed and confident man, the VP to the Reapers Reign, my badass reputation precedes me, yet I have been watching this girl for a year now and still have not grown a pair and stopped to speak to her. I, by no means, do love. I don’t do the feelings. I'm not cut out for it. It’s not in my DNA to feel; I bring nothing but blood and pain. How could someone want to be with an executioner like me? A demon so dark that I would give your nightmares, nightmares. I'm a lunatic unhinged with a taste for death that I can no longer hold.
How could I explain what I do to her? She looks like she is carrying the world on her shoulders, like she could crumble at any minute. There is no way I could add my own shit to her troubles. I would like to find out who the girl in the hooded jersey and ballet flats is. She has the clearest, lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, pools of crystal water you could drown in, but I can see the edges laced with sadness and pain.
I always leave early enough to grab a coffee and have it in the park across from the library where she spends a lot of her mornings before scurrying off to work in the diner across from my shop. I speed past her on my bike every single morning so I can beat her to the park. The girl with the glass blue eyes, hooded from this world in her own darkness... I’d like to save her. If only I knew how to break through not only my own fears, but hers also.
I didn’t see her this morning. The need to pick up a fix made me late. I sit, and I wait and wait, no sign of her, I keep looking at my watch. I'm so mad at myself for letting this goddamn thirst take a hold of me each time. I watched as it took not only my mother but my brother from me, from this world. It's so fucked up. I was dead against it, I watched it destroy them, our family, our lives, and our home. This poison sent me, homeless and alone, to the streets where the Reapers found me and took me in. I knew better, so why the fuck have I let it in? Let it control me? The fucking pressure to stay sane, that’s why.
Reaching into my jeans pocket, I roll the bag around my fingertips licking my lips as the need for it washes over me, knowing the feeling of pure bliss that is about to surge through me when I inject it into my veins send excitement rushing through me. Pulling my helmet on I roar off to my tattoo shop that sits across from the corner of 6th and 10th. I’ll get high, ink up my client, and then stare at the girl with the glass blue eyes.
Pulling up to my shop, I steal a glimpse at the diner. I see her sitting outside with a cup of coffee steaming as the hot vapor hits the cool air of our New York fall setting in. Each day, it's getting colder, more leaves are falling. It will start to get white soon. The time of year I love the most as it numbs me, kills the fire that runs through my blood for death, pain and suffering. Freezes the outside from sinking in. The summer and I are not friends the heat reminds me of hell the place my soul has residents. So winter and I well we are friends the cold keeps me company at night.
Fuck it, I'm going over. I need coffee anyway and she does make a killer brew. Walking over, I see her pull in further to her hoodie. Once I’m standing in front of her, she looks up at me through thick black lashes, instantaneously setting my dick to hyperalert, “Hey doll, how are you doing?” I say.
Looking around nervously, she finally speaks, stammering she says “Who me? Are you talking to me”?
Well it's not like there is anyone else out here, so I answer with my cocky self, “I sure am, babe” Like hell girl I just step from the safe zone over the street to talk to you and I legit fell like I could pass out. I am a man who doesn’t do idle chit chat. I think as I stare down onto her shaking frame. Shit it feels good though her voice is so soft and delicate you like have to really listen or you will miss the sweet and sensual undertones under her studder which I may add is sexy as all hell.
She starts to jitter looking at her feet, “No one ever speaks to me,” she blurts out.
My blood cools a little, clenching my fists, I ask her, “Why...”
“No reason, I'm just not worth the time, that’s all.” What the hell is that about? My mind travels to reasons why someone so intriguing as her would say that like shit I wanna talk to her so why wouldn’t anyone else. It has me mad, like who’s silencing her I see it in her eyes the pain floating over her glass blue orbs and it angers me that a soul as beautiful as hers feels pain.
She goes to pull herself up to leave. Proffering my hand out to help her up, I say to her, “Well they should. You have the sweetest voice and most intense eyes I have ever heard and seen.” It's the truth. “Girl you are stunning”. She freezes on the spot, holding her breath. I place my hand on the small of her back, leaning in real close. “Breathe, doll, I won't bite.”
Pushing open the door, I flick her a wink as she looks up at me, scared and shaking. I may look like a walking devil but surely its not me and my appearance that has her so scared it has to be what I see swimming in her eyes. Fear and pain placed inside her from another. As we walk in, we are greeted by the cook screaming at her to move her ass and stop fucking around. “You have people to serve, stupid girl,” he barks. She goes fifty shades of red and my blood boils. I'll smack the prick square in the jaw for that.
Pulling at her sleeve, she walks behind the counter, tugging her hoodie off over her head. My eyes fall on her body and I must say I would love to run my hands over her curves. I shake the thought from my mind; I would be no-good for a timid little thing like her. I would break her beyond repair. I shall just get my coffee and go.
“What can I get you, sir?” her sweet voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Oh, just a cup of coffee thanks, doll, extra shot with a dollop of cream to take away, hold the sugar.”
“C-coming right up,” she stutters. God, she’s hot the way her mouths moves when she stutters, the winters chill that pinkens her cheeks her skin is a shade of white that is near transparent and her eyes a glass blue that could slice you in two with just a stare, long black thick lashes to meet her midnight black hair. Shes breath taking. If only she knew what my cock and my mind wanted to do to her.
Watching her as she walks and moves around making my coffee, the way her ponytail swings is the best, it has taken my mind of the hit I need. The way she smells of coffee and jasmine is intoxicating. She has me on hyper drive and my dick dancing in my jeans. Watching her is a drug I could never grow tired of.
Cutting through my thoughts is the electric feeling of her hand as it places the cup in mine.
“There you go, sir, I ho-ope you enjoy your day,” she stumbles out.
A smile pulls at the corner of my lips, flicking her a wink I say, “I sure will now, doll, see you around.”
I'm consumed by her all day, even after I have pumped the shit into my veins. She haunts my mind, those eyes, her smell, and touch.
The six hours of ink dragged on. All I wanted to do was stare out the window of my tattoo parlor at the mysterious waitress who has fed my addiction, not with drugs, but with senses and feelings. It’s definitely a weird and unexpected combination for my hate filled soul to feel anything but anger and blind rage for a life consumed by death, hate and a unhealthy thirst for drugs.