Blood & Chocolate
folder
Original - Misc › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,322
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,322
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Les
All truck stops look the same. They all have their special quality's, an extra soda machine, a bigger selection of snacks, some even had a fast food joint in them. But for the most part, they all looked the same.
Nodding his head at the night shift, Les walked past them into the men's bathroom. He hoped for it to be empty, he wanted the handicap stall. Walking towards the back of the restroom, he pushed each door open.
"Good..." He spoke to himself as he got to the end of the line. He entered the larger stall, a small apartment.
Locking the door behind him, instinct, he hung his bag on the hook on the door. The forest green backpack he carried was floppy, empty of most of the things he had left his home with. The sound of unzipping was loud in the quiet bathroom. He reached into the bag, deep in the corner he found what he was looking for. Th pill bottle was almost empty. A small amount of cocaine and three pills remained. He had run out faster than he thought he would. Les dumped the remains into his open palm.
The cocaine was in a cellophane that had come off his pack of cigarettes. The three pills, two vicodin, one klonopin, had their special little markings. Their only individuality.
He popped one of the larger pills into his mouth and swallowed. He started to unwrap the last of his cocaine, but decided maybe he shouldn't. This was all he had and he wasn't sure how close he was to the nearest town. He knew once he arrived, he could find someone. But for now, he decided to save what he had.
Walking out of the men's room, he headed towards the snack machine. He thought about how far away from Grafton, Vermont he was now. He hated that place. He had always wanted to leave, but didn't know where he'd go. At twenty two years old, working in the local pizza place, he was miserable. He had been saving his money to the best of his ability for three years. But for what?
When he had finally decided he would leave, he took every cent out of his bank account. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew there was something better for him out there. With about three thousand dollars in his wallet, he left town.
The problem with addiction isn't what it does to you. It's not even what it does to the people around you. It's the money. It costs a lot to be devoted.
With nothing good enough in the machine, he walked away. Right outside the front door of the stop, was a trash barrel. He put his bag down on the edge and emptied out anything unnecessary. Candy rappers, empty pill bottles, general trash.
He was sure he was in Ohio now. It was only logical. He had already gone through New York on a bus, Greyhound. He had hitchhiked through Pennsylvania. Les must've missed the states greeting.
"Welcome to Ohio, the state of blah blah blah..."
It was always something inane. Completely uncreative. More unimportant nonsense trickling out of someones open mind, their open mouth.
He found a few picnic benches pushed back from the parking lot. Did anyone actually have picnics at a rest stop? Did people, on their family vacations, driving through this state of nothing, stop to have a quaint little picnic next to the cars flying by? The dog running around with their children, laughing and enjoying life as it was at that moment. Les pictured it and chuckled as he lay down on top of one of the red wooden tables. He used his backpack as a pillow and drifted off, the cold breeze brushing against him...
Nodding his head at the night shift, Les walked past them into the men's bathroom. He hoped for it to be empty, he wanted the handicap stall. Walking towards the back of the restroom, he pushed each door open.
"Good..." He spoke to himself as he got to the end of the line. He entered the larger stall, a small apartment.
Locking the door behind him, instinct, he hung his bag on the hook on the door. The forest green backpack he carried was floppy, empty of most of the things he had left his home with. The sound of unzipping was loud in the quiet bathroom. He reached into the bag, deep in the corner he found what he was looking for. Th pill bottle was almost empty. A small amount of cocaine and three pills remained. He had run out faster than he thought he would. Les dumped the remains into his open palm.
The cocaine was in a cellophane that had come off his pack of cigarettes. The three pills, two vicodin, one klonopin, had their special little markings. Their only individuality.
He popped one of the larger pills into his mouth and swallowed. He started to unwrap the last of his cocaine, but decided maybe he shouldn't. This was all he had and he wasn't sure how close he was to the nearest town. He knew once he arrived, he could find someone. But for now, he decided to save what he had.
Walking out of the men's room, he headed towards the snack machine. He thought about how far away from Grafton, Vermont he was now. He hated that place. He had always wanted to leave, but didn't know where he'd go. At twenty two years old, working in the local pizza place, he was miserable. He had been saving his money to the best of his ability for three years. But for what?
When he had finally decided he would leave, he took every cent out of his bank account. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew there was something better for him out there. With about three thousand dollars in his wallet, he left town.
The problem with addiction isn't what it does to you. It's not even what it does to the people around you. It's the money. It costs a lot to be devoted.
With nothing good enough in the machine, he walked away. Right outside the front door of the stop, was a trash barrel. He put his bag down on the edge and emptied out anything unnecessary. Candy rappers, empty pill bottles, general trash.
He was sure he was in Ohio now. It was only logical. He had already gone through New York on a bus, Greyhound. He had hitchhiked through Pennsylvania. Les must've missed the states greeting.
"Welcome to Ohio, the state of blah blah blah..."
It was always something inane. Completely uncreative. More unimportant nonsense trickling out of someones open mind, their open mouth.
He found a few picnic benches pushed back from the parking lot. Did anyone actually have picnics at a rest stop? Did people, on their family vacations, driving through this state of nothing, stop to have a quaint little picnic next to the cars flying by? The dog running around with their children, laughing and enjoying life as it was at that moment. Les pictured it and chuckled as he lay down on top of one of the red wooden tables. He used his backpack as a pillow and drifted off, the cold breeze brushing against him...