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Choosing Beggars

WARNING

This blog contains strong language and mentions sexual content, drug, and alcohol use.

"Hello,

My name is Nova and I'm twenty-two years old.

I like ta drink, smoke, have some bomb-ass sex, and I got a bad habit of gettin' into trouble.

I grew up in Biddeford, Maine, got kicked out at seventeen, stole my mom's AMC eagle and I've been on the road since.

So that's me... Oh, and the reason why I'm here is that I was forced at gunpoint ta walk through those doors."

 

The AA director sat in the back of the group, staring at me, "I don't believe that." he challenged.

"Believe it," I answered sternly, stepping off the podium and plopped into my metal folding chair. I crossed my arms over my chest, my jacket rustling against itself.

He stood up and started towards the front of the group, "No, I don't think so." he reassured me, "Ya'see, I've delt cases like you, and they're known to be very compulsive liars." His piercing blue hues stared at me.

I stared at him back, unfazed, not a word came from my mouth. He grinned at me, and I wanted to punch his teeth out.

fuck . you.

I sucked my lower lip in, he makes me want to go back out on the streets and get fucked. I smiled back, my blood heating up from him calling out my bullshit. He kept staring, waiting for some sort of response, but I gave him nothing, for now anyway. He broke stare and looked down at the podium. I had left a sheet of paper up there that read, I hate this hell hole and he sighed to himself. "So why do you keep coming back, Nova?" his eyes locked on mine, I hated when he said my name, the only time I'd want to hear that is if he was moaning it. He was a pretty attractive man. His eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.

I sucked at my teeth and sighed, standing up from my creaky chair, "Ya' know Tim," I started, "Sometimes, ya need ta learn ta shut that asshole sucking mouth of yours," I turned towards the door as my face went hot and walked out of the building. He said nothing, probably not even looking at me. I pushed the double doors of the church open and right before they slammed behind me, I heard, "These asshole-sucking lips will talk with you tomorrow." I huffed out a grunt I'm not wasting my fucking time over some know-it-all fuck-stick.

I pulled out a lighter and a pack of Camel Crushes from the breast pocket of my denim jacket and lit it up. "Fuck him," I muttered and inhaled while I lit the end of my smoke. "Fuck him," I repeated.

He was right though, he was my case manager after all. I come crawling back every fucking week after a bad trip, just begging for help, and for god knows why he takes me back every. god. damn. time.

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