35. Nia

35

NIA

"Where's your money?" Bobby's voice is annoying in my ear, but it's his incessant nudging of my shoulder that forces me to open my eyes.

Not

asleep

not

awake

not

quite

here.

"Front zipper," I mumble.

"There's only forty here." His voice is stern, the paper bills fanning my face.

"Then you already took the rest." I push him away, my tone sharpening the more he invades my space.

He doesn't move though, his body turning into a solid wall. "You owe me money."

"Fuck off, Ryan," I groan, too high to do more than swat in front of my face.

"This isn't Ryan's house, little girl." He shakes me harder.

"You've done just as much of my shit as I've done of yours." I'm alert now, but I'm incredibly fucked up still.

"I'm missing at least a gram."

I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, but I can tell the look on his face is nothing short of displeased.

"Check your shit. That's not my problem." I'm trying to push him away, but at this point, he's patting my pockets and prodding his fingers into my pants. "Get the fuck off me!"

"Give me my shit, Nia. I'm not fucking around." He pulls up at my hips like he's trying to reach into my back pockets.

"Get off!" I send my knee up high and hard, hitting him right between the legs.

"Fucking bitch!" he shouts, cupping at his balls with one hand while the other swats at me.

I know I'm high as fuck because the sting of the slap doesn't register; it's the force of his hand against my face making my head spin. Crying out is pointless, but I do it anyway, scrambling back too slowly, my body trying to keep up with my brain and mildly failing.

My ears ring.

He climbs on top of me one more time, his right arm pinning my hip down while his left knee secures me in place. I squirm, try to push him away, but he's basically a boulder on top of me as he reaches into the front of my pants pocket again. My heart races, the feeling of being overpowered too frightening, nearly paralyzing.

Except my grandma was pregnant when she whooped my grandfather's ass with a chair for trying to hit her, and fuck if I was gonna be bested by this piece of shit. I remember the heavy cast that's been a pain in my ass for two weeks now.

"Bobby, stop!" I shout again, but I don't wait. I send my arm down over his head.

He's only stunned for a split second, his hand reaching for my throat while the other tries to invade my pants. Bobby's a fucking idiot, because he doesn't have enough hands to contain, kill, and rape me, and even high, I can send my wrist down over his head again.

It's a sharp pain, but it's short. Electric but it doesn't linger, traveling from my wrist to my elbow, coming back only when I strike again. It's enough to make him bleed, make him finally pull back and give me the space I need to kick him in the nuts again, this time harder and with more accuracy. I grab my backpack, stumbling off the couch and darting clumsily for the door.

I fall, catching myself with my bad wrist, and this time, the pain is a burning throb. I bite it back, ignoring Bobby's cursing as I run out of his house. I don't look to see if he's following me; I just pound my feet under me and move faster than I've ever moved.

Thankfully, he's in a shit part of town, and there's about three houses between his and a gas station. My lungs are on fire, but I don't stop until I can hide inside, making my way to the restroom and avoiding the clerk's stare from behind the counter.

I lock the stall behind me, holding my backpack to my chest and squeezing. In a way, it's almost soothing, like the rapid-fire drumming of my heart.

The nodding off is the best.

Or the worst.

Eyelids flutter.

Sometimes, they don't open.

Sometimes, they stay shut.

I blink, and my back is against the cold, tile wall, my head leaning on the side of the toilet tank. I'm still clutching the backpack, shriveled into the corner of the little stall. The confusion is brief as I piece together the last few hours. Stumbling to a stand, I hang the backpack on the door hook.

Lowering my sweats to my knees, I pee for the first time in what feels like ages. That's when the bag of heroin falls out of the other pocket.

I snort.

I guess he was right. He is missing a gram. I wipe and pull my pants up before I pick it up off the ground and dump a little on the back of my phone case. Digging through my bag for a piece of paper, I settle for an old pharmacy receipt and roll it up into a straw before I snort down my next hit.

It's time to go home.