Page 2 of Brutal Knight

I had Demerol when I was with Dmitri. The first time I saw it, he was using it to treat a broken arm. It was back when I still thought I could change him, teach him about love. Like it was something I was required to do, something I was expected to do.

I know better now. It’s not my job to make any man better. They can’t get better, anyway.

The Demerol was never for me, and at first, I didn’t go near it. But Dmitri sprained my ankle, and I needed something. I wanted something to take it away. Take everything away.

The Demerol did that. It took everything away, and that was just what I wanted.

I’d rather have nothing than the pain Dmitri put me through.

I know I can find a dealer here. I skirt around the trash gathering by the sidewalk, avoiding puddles of sour milk and the drippings from massive dumpsters. It smells rank.

The man at the end of the alley leans against a building, hands shoved in his coat. It’s too big for him, hitting an awkward point on his legs. There are burned marks on the plastic shell. Cigarette holes. He’s got a knit cap on over his greasy hair.

Despite all that, he’s dressed well. He’s probably some upper middle-class family’s son, twenty-something and perpetually home from college. He has the look of a guy that went to school for something that lets him claim he starts businesses.

This is what modern addiction is for the rich. It’s not a crack house or an overdose on the wrong side of town. It’s some greasy rich boy with one hand in his daddy’s medicine cabinet.

I’ll take what I can get from that hand.

He glances at me as I approach. “What do you need?”

“Demerol.”

“That right?”

He looks me over. His curiosity isn’t the same as the man I passed on the street before, but it’s close. He wants to know more.

The problem is, I kind of have to give him something he wants. He’s giving me drugs.

“Two doses,” I reply shortly.

The man shrugs. “You know how much.”

I do. I dig into my pocket for the last of my cash. I know it’s stupid to blow it now—I should only take half of what I want, save money for food. Water. Anything.

But I don’t care.

Whatever is coming for me in the future, I can’t wait around to stop the memories. Screw it. If I end up frozen in the morning, I don’t want to spend my last night having nightmares about Dmitri and flashbacks to him beating the shit out of me.

“Would have taken you for an Oxy girl,” the dealer says. He’s sorting out a tiny Ziploc bag for me.

“Just wasn’t it.”

He snorts. “I don’t see how anything is it for you. What are you? One hundred soaking wet?”

“Not what it’s about.”

I’m getting itchy. I don’t want to talk to him about this, or anything. And I need a fix. It’s been too long since I’ve had something, and the real world is too bright and loud. Too close.

“Yeah, yeah. Never is.”

The dealer opens his hand, wiggles his fingers. I try not to make a face as I slip the last of my cash onto his palm. He closes his hand and withdraws, counting.

My leg jumps, my left heel bouncing against the pavement. This is taking too long. I keep thinking about Dmitri, about how there could be some wild chance that he’s alive. I think about how he could have pretended or staged his death. Maybe he’s out there right now, watching me.

I know it’s not true. The logical part of my brain knows he’s dead. I’ve seen it.

But the logical part of my brain doesn’t work as well when it comes to Dmitri. Not after years of his manipulation.

---