These Lonely Streets

13.

I stared at the number on the white wooden door, awaiting the moment it would creak open on its rusty hinges and reveal the face I wasn't sure I wanted to see. My nerves stood on edge as I picked at the gauze tape that housed my bullet wounds. As for my neck, it remained unveiled for the world to see; my stitches stuck out like a sore thumb against my skin.

Suddenly, the door opened and my eyes instantly locked with Goliath's. A thin chain separated us; he closed the door and I listened to the 'click' of the lock being fumbled with. The door reopened, the chain no longer restraining us from one another. Goliath stared at me incredulously, his eyes wide with what I felt to be disbelief.

"You're okay?" he asked softly.

"Uhm, yeah," I replied.

Goliath reached out and pulled me into a tight hug. I squeaked in pain, his strong arms crushing my wounds.

"Sorry," he said quickly as he pulled back. I rubbed the spots, my tense muscles beginning to relax.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

Goliath cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at the inside of the apartment. I stood up on my tip-toes to see what he was looking at, then dropped back down as his gaze met mine once again.

"Uh, sure," he said with uncertainty. He took a step backwards, his eyes glued to me as I stepped over the threshold. What was his deal?

Oh.

I stared at the assortment of drugs littering the coffee table in his living room, but my eyes fixated on the small bag of beige powder at the end of the table. My body tensed and ached, the crutches that held me up from my former addiction beginning to crack and unbolt.

"Have a seat," Goliath murmured. Urgency burned in his featuers as he quickly swept all the bags of assorted drugs into a tattered gray sack. I awkwardly sat on the destroyed, green floral couch. I tried to think of other things, like how this couch had gotten here. It had been sitting on the side of the road with a "FREE" sign slapped onto the arm rest. James and Goliath scooped it up, figuring it might make a nice piece of decor even though the cushion was spilling out stuffing.

No use.

My eyes zeroed in on the sack that sat at the end of the table as I began to pick at my cuticles, images flashing through my head.

I curled up on the bed, my nails digging into the fresh white linen as my body shook in discomfort. My shoulders felt like they were going to break from the weight of depression and anxiety that dangled from them. My roommate, Ashley, stared at me with wild intensity.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she snapped.

"Go away," I growled.

"Can't. You're stuck with me." The big, cocky smile she wore made me want to take out a switchblade and kill her. However, all my weapons were at home.

Even though it had only been a few days, my whole body felt as though it would crumble to tiny bits and be swept away by the drafts from the air conditioner. The withdrawal was murdering me; I was constantly shaking and all of my limbs ached. After my first dose of methadone, I thought I was going to die on the spot.

"Quit your bitchin'," Ashley sighed as she scribbled down the margin of a lined piece of paper. It was only at that moment that I realized I had been groaning in pain. I sat up, my eyes narrowing on her. She looked back at me, her eyes dancing with annoyance.

"Why don't you go back home? Bet you your daddys waiting for ya," I taunted. Ashley growled and threw down her paper, rage spilling out of her every pore. I knew that was a low blow, but I barely cared.

What was she gonna do about it?

I pulled the comforter over my body and sighed as I heard Ashley get up and slam the door of the bathroom. She was probably gonna tear her wrists up with a razor she hid from the staff members. My stomach jolted with cramps as I desperately prayed for relief. My eyes focused on the circular scars decorating the veins on my arms like a skimpy Christmas tree.

How long was it going to take?

"Hey, I'm over here," Goliath snapped.

"Yeah, hi. What's up?" I asked quickly.

"You feeling okay?"

I examined my arms before delicately pressing two fingers to my neck.

"Yeah, just sore."

"Sorry I couldn't come visit you," he said. "I've got a job to do."

"I noticed," I answered bitterly. Goliath frowned and ran a hand through his hair.

"If I had known you were coming, I would've hidden it all."

I shrugged and gazed around at the apartment's features; the walls were still the same, ugly light brown I remembered and the white carpet was dotted with stains. Goliath had never had an interest in trying to make his apartment appealing to the eye; instead, he left it in its dirty and flawed state. He wasn't one to clean, which was proven from a thin layer of dust on top of the TV, fridge, and other spots.

"Who's it going to?" I asked suddenly.

"Spike and Scooter," he replied. "Gonna meet 'em in Butcher Alley tonight."

I nodded, and although Goliath had finished his sentence, his eyes told me that there was more he wanted to say.

"Alright, tell me," I said.

"Tell you what?" he asked, trying to act confused.

"Don't play the dipshit card. What do you have to say?"

"Nothing. It's a bad idea."

"Dammit, Goliath! Just fucking say it!"

Goliath grabbed the sack and slammed it down onto the coffee table, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold back a spark of anger.

"Are you coming with me?"

I wasn't expecting to jump right back into my "job" when I came back. It completely defeated the purpose of spending all that time getting help from the professionals and working on creating a new life for myself.

Yet here I was, leaning against the brick wall in Butcher Alley with a pocketful of shwag dime bags and not a whole lot of patience. Goliath was beside me with his bag full of surprises, his eyes focused on the cracked and littered sidewalk illuminated by a nearby street lamp. He was smart by not letting me carry the serious stuff, but I found myself eyeing the bag more than once in hope that the heroin would pop out to say hello. I forced my eyes to the ground instead, but watching my foot kick up dirt and pebbles was hardly as entertaining.

"They're coming," he murmured into my ear and nodded toward the sidewalk. Sure enough, two shadows were making their way toward us. I pulled my black hood up as my heart raced inside my chest. I felt as though I was going to forget how this all worked, but I found comfort in the switchblade sandwiched between the elastic of my sweatpants and my hip.

The two figures turned the corner of the alley, their faces masked by the dark shadows cast from the buildings. I gulped as I noticed their heights, both of them towering well above six feet. However, my memory poked through a wall I had built inside my head, and I instantly remembered the two of them and their basic appearance. They used to be loyal customers of mine. I remembered Spike, the short-tempered black man that had once given Buster a black eye, and Scooter, his little brother who didn't appear to be so little.

"Who's the chick?" one asked. His voice was low and stern, which I assumed was Spike from memory. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness just enough for me to make out small details of their faces.

"You remember her," Goliath stated. I could feel my face being evaluated by two sets of eyes, followed by Scooter snapping his fingers and busting out in laughter.

"Ay, it's Cory, man!" he exclaimed, grabbing my shoulder and giving me a brutal shake.

"Yeah, it's me," I stated, feeling the corners of my lips perk a bit.

"Where the hell did you disappear to?" Scooter asked.

"I took a personal leave." It was easier to say than the truth.

"Well, damn good to see you around here again. I missed your services a whole lot, y'know?"

I smiled and chuckled. "Well, I'm ready to give it another go," I said. My eyes glanced at Goliath and Spike, whom had moved over a few feet to do a deal. I watched Goliath remove a couple bags filled with goodies, followed by Spike forking over the cash.

"So, you got my usual?" Scooter asked suddenly.

Crack? No.

"Just some shwag tonight," I replied as I pulled out a dime bag. Scooter sighed in frustration, at which my fingers began to trace the outline of my switchblade.

"Eh, what the hell," he finally said, taking the bag from my hand and replacing its void with $25 dollars.

"Y'know it's only 15," I said.

"Consider it a welcome home gift."

Even in the shadows, I saw him flash me a grin. I pocketed my earnings and released a sigh of relief. Easy, simple, rewarding. I repeated the words in my head.

"So, we're all finished up here?" Spike said as the two of them closed the space they had opened between us.

"I've got my fix," Scooter said.

"Alright." Spike turned to me. "Pleasure to see you again."

I nodded in repsonse.

"We'll be in touch," he said, and the two of them dismissed themselves from the alley and disappeared at a brisk run.

"How are you feeling now?" Goliath asked once he was sure we were alone.

"Alive." I grinned, feeling a rush inside me that I thought was permanently shut out.

Goliath and I ended up making more than originally planned for the night. Goliath was making it big on just a few ounces of crack and meth, but I knew compensation was included in his pricing. Whoever his supplier was had severely underpriced his merchandise, but nobody would say that to their face.

I also had no idea Goliath was carrying that kind of bait on this particularly risky fishing trip. I made around $60, not including Scooter's generous payment. I was out of dime bags for the night, but I still stuck with Goliath, not wanting this rush to leave my body.

"Here." Goliath handed me the sack he had been carrying the entire night as he turned back to a scruffy looking addict. The man's hands were shaking, his blood-shot eyes glassed over but still retaining their anger. Goliath's hands wielded his gulity pleasure: Crack.

"Hand it over!" the man hollered, his hand reaching out to swipe the small plastic bag filled with a white crystal powder. Goliath growled, snatching it away and grabbing the man by the throat. He steadily bashed the man into the wall, showing no mercy.

"No money, no deal," he hissed, tightening his fingers on the man's skin.

Normally I'd be at his side, switchblade pulled and ready to slice and dice when the situation became too much. Although, my eyes were glued to the sack in my hands. My fingers felt the sides, the outline of the heroin bag inside pricking my nerves as though a bolt of electric shot through me by its touch. I glanced up at Goliath, who had removed his switchblade and held it to the man's throat.

"C'mon man, drop me," the man said.

"You said you'd have the money, so where is it?"

I tuned out the potential fight. Temptation seared my insides, but the conscience I had grown to know in the past year was screaming at me in my head.

Don't do it, Cory.

But why?

You know EXACTLY why.

Shut up.

I reached into the bag and removed the bag of heroin. I stuffed it into my pocket, a wave of relief washing and comforting me. I was always good at shutting out those damn voices in my head.

"I think we're done here," Goliath stated flatly.

"You've gotta cut me some slack," the man argued. "Recession has got me spilling every bit of money into bills and shit."

"Cut you some slack?" Goliath laughed.

He thrust his thumb into the major pressure point on the man's neck. The man's eyes rolled back, his arms falling limp, and Goliath eased his grip on his throat. The man slipped to the cold ground, his body rendering a peaceful aura as though he had simply fallen asleep there.

"What the hell?" Goliath turned and snapped on me.

"What, what?!" I asked frantically.

"You don't just stand there!" he yelled. "What if this asshole pulled a knife on me?"

"I'm sorry! I just spaced out."

Goliath's irises swirled in fury, and I knew he was right. I was half-assing this job that I used to master. I stepped back, cowering from a possible fist to face. There was no room for error in a deal, for someone could kill you within a matter of seconds without any rhyme or reason.

"I think I'm gonna head out," I said. The heroin in my pocket was stirring me into such a frenzy that it might as well just sprout legs and crawl away.

Goliath suddenly stopped talking. My ears focused on the sound of sirens approaching, nearing our location with every second that passed. My mind flashed to the other night, when Wes was cut short of his plans because of the same deafening noise. Goliath's eyes met mine, and the anger was now highlighted with urgency.

"Go," he whispered.

"Where am I go--"

"GO!"

I dropped the sack and hauled ass down the road. My heart pounded against my ribcage, slowly breaking down the bone in order to beat a hole straight through my chest. I pulled my hood back up as my legs carried me down South 4th Street, even though a girl running through Camden at eleven at night might seem suspicious to someone. The sirens of--an ambulance, maybe a cop car?--continued to whir and buzz as I rounded the corner onto Mechanic Street, feeling the tiny plastic bag bounce against my thigh.

Herman Joe's Bar was sandwiched between two desolate brick buildings, its green neon sign allowing it to stick out in the night. I slowed my run to a brisk walk, arriving outside of the bar as though I was only a mere customer looking for a few drinks.

If you minused the heroin in my pocket.

I entered the dimly lit building, greeted by the sound of 92.5 XTU playing country music and billiard balls clacking together in an effort to get either stripes or solids into the holes. Low murmurs of conversations floated through the room with the occasional burst of obnoxious laughter and the clinking of brown Budweiser bottles. Posters of nearly nude women and sports players covered the wood walls and a few more neon signs decorated the back wall near the strip of cherry red bar stools. I walked over and took a stool, nodding at the bartender who looked like a stoner in every sense of the word.

"Budweiser," I said. I picked at a splinter on the bar, listening to Lady Antebellum sing about their drunken night and longing for someone. I grimaced and picked the splinter free, letting it fall to the colorfully tiled floor. The bartender set the bottle down in front of me, and even though the gang would personally kill me for it, I took a long, deserving swig. In that moment, I really hoped Goliath hadn't followed after me.

I looked up and glanced behind me, but he wasn't there. There were unruly looking men playing pool in a corner, a younger man hustling at the pool table beside that one, and many others making small talk at the round tables throughout the bar. A young woman, drunk off her ass, tried to dance in the middle of the room while a man watched with a grin, probably ready to take full advantage of her.

Then my eyes met a man's.

He was sitting just a few stools down and his eyes were glued to me. Tension burned up my spine; even though I was staring him down, his eyes remained in contact with mine. My fingers gripped the condesating bottle as I was unable to look away from his intense, cold stare. Dozens of tattoos wove up his arms, including one that popped out in particular. On his bicep were three tattered black X's with blood dripping off the tips.

Fuck.

I turned away immediately, pretending to be consumed in my drink by chugging the remainder. It was one of Wes's members, one of the Black Bloods. I placed the empty bottle against the bar, studying its label carefully. There was no way he'd choose to attack now, not here with all these witnesses.

"Another one," I requested. The bartender set down another bottle before me, and there lied my plan. I would stay here until he left, even if the amount of beers would be disastrous for me. Hey, at least it wasn't a bottle of vodka, even though that sounded like heaven.

The second bottle didn't last five minutes. I had forgotten how good it tasted, how good it made me feel inside. Slowly but surely, I was pushing myself off the wagon just to lay in the dirt with bottles all around me. Every now and again, I'd glance at the man, whom was occupied by his drinks.

My fingers occasionally grazed my knife. I needed it.

After a half hour and two more drinks, the man stood up, paid for his drinks, and exited the bar in a sulking strut. I pretended not to care, but my eyes still followed him out the door until it closed comfortably into the frame. I decided to wait a few more minutes, or at least until I thought he was far enough away from the bar. If I stayed much longer, my risk of being caught by the gang would increase and so would my chances of them shipping me back off to Pittsburgh.

"Keep the change," I said to the bartender as I pressed a crisp twenty dollar bill down on the bar. I slipped off the bar stool and made my way out the door, leaving the country music and partial safety beihnd me. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Nearly midnight.

Sighing, I pocketed the silver device and started down the sidewalk, a nervous skip in my step. Sure, I could have just called for a ride home, but they would notice the slight balance issues I was having and know what I had been up to. Taxis around this town were sketchy and the drivers could barely speak a lick of English most of the time. Walking was quite the hazard, but it wasn't the first time I risked it all to get home.

The bag stuffed in my pocket slapped against my thigh with each step. A shivering cringe pulsed through me at the thought, both sides of me battling over it. My mind turned to a world of white with two versions of me standing a few feet apart. To the right stood the old me, her hair dipping into her face to hide the dark black bags the seeped down to her cheekbones. The sclera of her eyes were flushed red and her balance was that of a table with only one leg.

To the left stood the present day me, whom was standing straight up with the color now returned to the skin beneath her eyes. Her eyes were crystal clear and healthy, her stance strong and meaningful.

Shoot it up!

Throw it OUT!

Shut your mouth! You don't know a good thing when you see it!

It's poison!

It's life!

"Well, well, well."

I whipped around, breaking out of my inner battle as I heard the voice from reality come from behind me. My eyes widened as I saw the man that I had attempted to avoid from the bar, his eyes glinting with mischief as he slapped a cold hand across my mouth. His other arm locked around my waist and arms as I screamed against his hand, but all it sounded like was a cat's screeching meow.

"Shhhh," he cooed as he dragged me into a nearby alley, the heels of my shoes leaving a trail in the dirt. The man unlocked his arm and thrust me into the wall, quickly pressing the tip of a pistol to the hollow of my throat.

It just wasn't my week, was it?

"Didn't you learn a thing?" he asked. I fussed against his grip, ignoring his words. I opened my mouth and clamped my canines down onto his hand, causing him to jolt and jerk his hand away.

"You little bitch!" he yelled, pushing the tip harder into my neck and cocking the hammer with a soft 'click'.

"Go ahead, tough guy. Shoot," I mocked.

"I already have," he taunted.

I glared at him, but my mind spun with wonder from his taunts and teases. I studied his features as my fingers slowly curled around the grip of my knife. All I had to do was wait for the right moment to pull it on him, even if it resulted in a shot to the esophagus.

"What? Don't remember?" he asked.

"I try not to think about pieces of shit like you."

He grinned. It wasn't just a tiny, teasing grin, but a huge, amused grin that was revealing something bubbling in his thoughts. He let out a soft chuckle, the pistol shaking against my throat. Soon, the man reached down and touched the guaze tape encasing my arms, plucking the edge of it and unraveling it to reveal the massacre.

"You remember this, though, don't you?" he asked as he poked the stitches with the pistol. He glanced back at me with his dark eyes before adding, "Baby?"

"You!" I shrieked. I whipped my knife out, the blade gleaming in the bit of lamp light that stretched into the alley. I slashed the blade right into his skin, completely tearing through his T-shirt; blood began to gush from the thin strip on his chest as he jumped back, his face contorted into pain.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he yelled, aiming the pistol at me. I stood my ground, my knife firmly grasped in my right hand as the world around us seemed to fade out into oblivion.

"What do you think, you stupid fuck?" I yelled. "You and your asshole friends shot me!"

He lowered the pistol. "That's what you're all uptight about?" he laughed.

I growled, leaping forward and aiming straight for his stomach. However, his reflexes, like those of a sharp cat, blocked the knife. He grabbed my wrist and snatched the knife from my hand, switching the blade inward and tossing it aside. To even the odds, he pocketed his pistol and leaned back against the wall as he pressed the fabric of his clothing to the wound I had inlficted.

"I saved your life. Shouldn't you be in debt to me now?" he asked.

"Piss off," I sneered.

"Fine, I'll remember that next time."

"I told you to leave me there."

"And I didn't."

I stared at him incredulously. The same stupid grin lit up his face, which I now had full memory of provided by the night I nearly lost my life. I glanced at my knife on the ground, at which he buried it beneath his foot.

"Don't even think about it, hun," he said.

"Stop calling me that!" I yelled.

"Yelling won't get you what you want."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"Me?" He looked at the ground as he smushed the knife deeper into the dirt. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" I glared at him, feeling fire start to burn up my body in irritation. "You don't just grab your enemy off the street for nothing. Why don't you finish what you didn't before? Take out the pistol and shoot me."

"Nah."

"'Nah'?!"

"I didn't before, why would I now?"

I felt like ripping my hair out by the roots and screaming until my lungs reduced themselves to dust. I stared toward the sky, slowly counting the stars to calm myself. One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

"So, Cory."

I looked back at the man, feeling the rage return in milliseconds.

"How do you know my name?" I asked.

"Everyone knows your name. You're the rehab girl," he replied.

"Well who are you?" I asked cautiously.

"Miles."