I spend close to an hour trying to find a vein on her hands.
When blood finally rushes into the plastic syringe I push down, and her eyes roll back in her head.
I lick the blood off her hand, and we both laugh.
“Ready to sit by the pool?”
Pete asks me why I’m always in the bathroom.
“I’m trying to find a vein, you moron”.
Anesthetizing myself or staring in the mirror. I hate how I look. I wish people would stop complimenting me.
Injecting heroin, maybe coke in a pinch. One time vodka. Desperate times…
And he wonders why I’m always draining my bank account. How is anyone supposed to live on $2500 a week?
Pete’s office manager drops my check off, and Mitra answers the bell.
“About time,” she says angrily and slams the door.
We need the money for her Jag. The front wheel fell off, and all the dealers know the black BMW.
“Pete’s going to be mad if you leave oil stains on the driveway”.
She tosses her hair over a Gucci top, “who cares you hate him”.
I watch the sun hit her bronze skin and the tracks on her arms.
She’ll be dead in six months.