Free Break Free & Be Broken by Eros Winter

being a sheep all these years. I really can't imagine anything more stupid any more than sitting at a red light when no one else is on the street, just because that's the law. Why I never questioned that logic before, I'll never know. I don't even want to think about what other things I've been following blindly that’ve only been holding me back. It's an abominable thought indeed.
    I'm 15 feet into the canyon when I remember something that cuts through me like a hurricane of razors. I'm out of heroine. Am I really expected to do this sober as a bird? No, of course not, for birds can fly, and I'm expected to fall. I need to go out high and in style.
    Curse the day! My phone is most likely a hot pile of goo right now... no way to call my man for drugs... so what am I going to do? Hmmm. Griff is surely home. A junkie of his caliber is always home. He won't be happy having me just show up... but who cares? It's only-I check my watch: that's right, my watch is gone. But my car has a clock, and it's what, six o'clock? A very reasonable hour. As long as I can convince him to give me something this time, what does it matter if he never wants to sell to me again? I'll be dead.
    The perks of dying keep on comin! This kind of freedom is too good to be true: a final gift for the soon to be departed.
    Griff lives twenty minutes in the opposite direction from my house, which would usually be well over an hour from here, but not tonight. No, no, not tonight. I continue driving like a madman. In a way, I have to in order to keep my spirits up. A back track like this was not in the plan, and normally, such a thing would have crippled me with discouraged frustration. Even tonight, the pain of such pricks menacingly through me, but driving like this is fun. I should just be grateful I get to do it a while longer.
    I make it to Griff's in just 37 minutes. Looking at the place, I have no idea why cops don't just stop by and bust him. It couldn't be a more typical looking junkie abode. It's run down, dirty, and dilapidated-just like the people inside. I've never known if this is Griff's house or if it belongs to one of the other cretins who reside here. I've always assumed it is his because he seems to be the only one who is constant, but I really have no idea and have never cared to ask. I don't like associating with drug addicts; they are no friends of mine. I keep conversation to a minimum.
    I park on the street and head up to the door, forging my way through mountains of cigarette butts and garbage to do so. Filthy scum. The lights are on, and I can hear chatter inside. I raise a hand and deliver the friendliest sounding knock I can-making it almost musical-doing my best to convey that the stranger outside is, in fact, a friend. The chatter fades. I wait patiently for the sound of approaching footsteps, but they don't come. I knock again-still friendly-but pepped with the spice of urgency. Perhaps too much spice, cause now I hear footsteps, but they're moving away.
    Shit.
    I knock again-loud this time-friendliness all but lost. "Griff! It's Chales brotha. Open up." I wait. I listen. Nothing. My anger rises. "Come on man, I'm in a tight spot." I bang on the door. "Griff!" I deliver a sound punch for the finale. No one comes. I over did it.
    My anger flares.
    I reach down and grab the door handle. I'm somewhat surprised to discover it's locked. Who in this house had the presence of mind to lock up? Undeterred, I take a step back, shift my weight onto my back leg, and prepare to send forth a kick. I'm getting in and getting my drug, one way or another.
    Just as I'm about to kick, I hear the lock slide open and watch the door crack. A frightened eye peers out from inside. "Who is it?" I recognize the lazy, stupid voice immediately: Griff.
    "It's Chales, man. What's crackin homie?"
    "Chales? What are you doin here man? It's not the third of the month."
    Impressive. He actually has the presence of mind to remember what day I normally make use of