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Spoon-Fed

(Author's Note: Trigger warning - addiction, and related traumas)

What would you pay to fall in love again?

If a bright-eyed devil in a pinstripe  skirt laid all the cards out on the table... If she grinned with teeth like broken glass, curled a tongue as long and smooth as a mile of new asphalt... If those maw-mosaic teeth ground promises into your ears until you lost all other appetites ...If your food turned to ashes on your tongue... If drink could never satisfy that scorching in your throat...

If she had the face of the girl that you let die in your arms, choking on half-chewed Spaghetti-O's...

If she came to you in dreams that turn into nightmares ever night...

If every single night, she promised she'd forgive you tomorrow.

If... If... If...!

If so, then how could you say no?

What's a soul really worth, anyway? Does a junkie even still have one? Is recovery force-fed to you by a ghost really a victory? Is guilt worth the same as strength? Should I really be celebrated?

Should I be damned? Well, I'll be damned...

If she won't be alone, then fuck it. Hell, it's a job.

The pen didn't so much click as sink down like a syringe's plunger. Then it was done.

Then? Things got pretty fucking iffy.

(Prompt: thedailywritingprompts:

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Writing Prompt 196

 

This key opens the door to the most precious thing in the world to you, which is…

Such a fun setting, with dark deals for more than money. What's the market value of a soul? And for every market, a sub-market grows...</ obscure> And to my late-night anonymous? I'll get to your question tomorrow.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins