Catherine Micqu

My best friend H

Catherine Micqu

I sit on this horrendously smelling couch. Again. This place. That smell. No matter how often I sit here, it never escapes me. It smells like piss and vomit, and still, I return here. Every day. Sometimes more than once. Because my friend calls me. In front of me is a low table. The legs have been sawed off to make it this low. It’s full of crap. Mostly crap. Some things on the table are important. Very important. Worth a fortune and the owner’s bliss. My hand sweeps over the table, and I roam through the little foils and tiny bags to find what I am looking for. Most of them are empty. My hand is trembling. I need it. Soon. I feel like crawling out of my skin and tearing out my hair. I crave it! My legs start shaking; I can’t keep them still. It’s like…

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