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I’m twenty-one years old. I’m sitting on a couch in a crappy little apartment that makes me feel claustrophobic as soon as I walk in the front door. It’s the kind of place that on the outside looks like it could use some freshening up, and then on the inside you realize that there is no freshening that could fix the shit wrong with the building.

My ridiculously bitchy girlfriend, Kandiss, is whining in the bathroom about how her skin is breaking out again. Maybe if she wasn’t such a cunt all of the time, she wouldn’t be so stressed, and her forehead would clear.

Probably not, though. It’s about time the outside reflects the inside.

What, you think I’m mean? She’s cheating on me, you know. Or she has at least once. The proof is goo-ing and gaa-ing in the crib in the corner.

That’s the only reason I’m still here. I definitely don’t love the girl anymore, but daddy fucked off and his four-month-old baby really doesn’t have a parent.

Not like I’m really a model parent. I don’t like kids, and I don’t know the first thing about raising them properly. Look at my fucking role model.

But at least I know that the thing needs food, clean diapers, and attention.

Kandiss is much too self absorbed to care about those things. Every day when I get home from work I half expect the kid to be dead.

I actually expected the kid to be dead before it was born. I thought for sure the amount of drugs Kandiss was doing before she found out she was pregnant would have killed it for sure. She quit everything cold turkey, just the shock of it… it’s a wonder the baby survived, and as healthy as it is.

But I still feel sorry for it. Kandi’s an idiot. And as much as I’m somewhat of a parental figure, it doesn’t change the fact that I have no blood relation to it. The little shit machine is a product of infidelity. Excuse me if I have a hard time loving it. Especially because it looks up at me with that same dumb expression that Kandiss gives me when I ask her to do something.

That ‘duh, how do I use the vacuum again?’ expression.

Don’t ever get into a serious relationship with a blonde.

Honestly, I’m really starting to think that the superstitions are true. They’re all dumb as fuck. Mom’s a blonde and she might as well be legally retarded.

And this baby is probably going to be blonde, too. Raised by Kandiss, she’ll surely also be dumb.

The kid starts to wail.

“Oh God, not again!” Kandi can whine just as well as the baby can. “Please, make it stop!” She makes it sound like I can just tap an off switch. I sigh.

I cross the room to the crib and look down at the little critter. It looks pissed. Sorry, I guess the damn thing has a gender. It’s a girl. She looks pissed. Learns how to be bitchy from her mommy, I guess.

Her name is Laura. Kind of a stupid name for a baby, I think, but I didn’t really have any say in the matter. Not like I wanted a say, but Laura? How unoriginal. I guess it’s better than Persephone. Ugh.

Laura’s extra pissed now that I’m picking her up. She just doesn’t want to be consoled. Just like mommy, she just wants to bitch and scream and have everyone just take it.

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

I start to sing the first few lines of Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd. I always thought that song would be a great lullaby. I start to walk around in circles, kind of bouncing. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’ve seen other people do it, so it’s got to be what you’re supposed to do with a baby.

Once I get past the first chorus, she shuts right up. I’m pretty surprised. But I keep singing, just in case.

When I’m done, I look down at the little monster, and she’s fast asleep. Well, how about that. Too bad this doesn’t work on Kandiss.

“Thank you,” she moans from the bathroom, as if she was dying and I just sewed up her mortal wound. What a drama queen.

I gently lay Laura down in the crib and she stays sleeping. I noticed in the last four months that I really hate the sound of a baby crying. Doesn’t everyone?

Now that the baby’s asleep, I can go through with my plan.

I’ve been at the end of my wits with this situation. Kandiss is an unfit mother, and I’m an unfit… well, whatever I’d be to the kid.

I walk to the bathroom door and lean on it casually, making eyes at Kandi. She glances back at me in the mirror, a little confused. She knows I hate her. But she’s dumb enough that it won’t be hard to convince her I don’t.

“You know, you’ve been working so hard, staying at home with the baby all day, every day.” I sigh in fake appreciation. “She’s sleeping now, what do you say we relax together?” She raises an eyebrow as she finishes applying some kind of face cream.

“Like, how?” God, she sounds like such a valley girl. What the hell did I ever see in her? Seriously! Maybe I’m the dumb one.

“Like we used to.” I smile slyly at her. “Come on, it’s late, Laura’ll sleep through the night. It’s not like you’re pregnant anymore. You’ve been so good…” I lower my chin and look at her from beneath my lashes. That always used to drive her crazy.

Her eyes widen a bit. “You’ve got…” I knew it would be the drugs that suckered her in. Too predictable.

“Grade A right off the iceberg, baby.” I slip a little baggy from my pocket and wiggle it in front of her face.

Methamphetamine. A vise. A drug too easy to get used to doing constantly. People say that blow is addictive. Nope.

The thing with Ice, is that it makes you feel amazing, but when you come down you feel like killing yourself. Even if you’re not a depressive person. You just hate everything. So what do you do? You blow more meth. Then you come down again. Then you blow more. And more… and soon, it’s an hourly thing.

Moral of the story; don’t ever fucking do meth.

You can imagine what it was like to put up with Kandiss, queen bitch, pregnant, and coming off of a two year meth high. It made me want to blow my brains out, and I wasn’t even doing drugs at the time.

Kandi reaches out slowly and caresses the bag. Most people would be having an internal battle over whether they should touch the shit after being clean for so long. I know all that’s going through her head is how potent it is, and whether or not I want any.

“It’s yours, honey.” I put it in her hand. “I’ll take care of you.” I smile wickedly at her, and within seconds she’s opening the top drawer and pulling out a mirror. In a few expert strokes with the back of a comb, she’s got four massive caterpillar lines spread out in front of her.

And in a few expert swipes of her face, without even a straw, the lines are gone, two up each nostril. Perfect.

She moans, and sits down hard on the toilet. “Oh… God…” She throws her head back and gyrates her hips a little, and I know she’s riding the waves of pleasure. I watch her lithe pale form tense and relax, over and over, as she gets used to the feeling again.

I can’t help it; I’m turned on. She’s wearing little booty short underwear and a blue tank top. And now she’s warm, and writhing. Probably incredibly wet.

I reach out and take her hands. She opens her eyes to look at me and her pupils are so massive I can’t even see the blue in her irises.

“Fuck me.” She demands, voice shaky. “Please.” Wow, this shit works fast. I’ll be happy to comply. You’ll never see me again after tonight, bitch, so you’d better remember the million orgasms I’m about to give you.

I am quite talented, if I do say so myself.

And she says so too, in many different ways, at many different volumes. At one point I gag her with one of her scarves; don’t want to wake the baby. Then I dive right back in for the kill.

One thing about blondes… they do taste incredibly sweet.

Eventually she passes out. Most people can maintain a meth high without sleep for days, but Kandiss has serious metabolism, and she was so used to the shit that she can even eat when she’s on it.

Plus, of course, I tired her right out. Lost count at thirty-eight. Damn I’m good.

It’s early in the morning on Saturday. I feed Laura. As soon as I’m done she passes back out. Awesome. Both of them sleeping like the dead.

I dig out two sandwich bags full of meth and stash them in between the couch cushions.

I pack a few of my favourite clothes, and jam my personals into a duffel bag. I don’t have much. I’m pretty self-sufficient.

I pick up my phone and start dialing as soon as I lock the door behind me. It only rings once.

“911, what is your emergency?”

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