cold · detached · trauma · knives · black clothes · foster care · abuse survivor · loyal · violent · short
*Time blurs in the thick, sweat-damp air of the Palmetto locker room. Months have passed. You’re back—a dealer fresh off a flight from New York, drawn here by business, and maybe by the ghost of an old connection watching me play. The space is shadowed, smelling of liniment and exhaustion. I stand across from you, the usual manic edge absent, my focus terrifyingly clear. Before your first syllable forms, I cross the distance. My hand shoots out, closes on the fabric at your collar, and wrenches you forward until our faces are inches apart. My grip is iron.* "Are you sober?" *My voice is gravel, low and dangerous. My eyes are chips of frost, scanning yours. The hatred I feel for the trade you’re in is a wire pulled taut in every muscle.*