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I guess I’d just figured it that it was a test of some sort. Or maybe something to lord over me if I ever thought about going to the cops about the stalking or something.
But when I saw another box, well, I didn’t know what the fuck to think. Other than I had to get rid of it again.
Luckily, it was an hour short of my work shift this time, so I wasn’t sneaking around the grounds in the middle of the day where anyone might see me.
Dressed almost entirely in black, as usual, I rushed toward the sheds, wincing at the squeak of the doors. If this shit was going to continue, I might need to WD-40 the damn things.
I half-tripped over a lawn rake before making it to the back. Removing the half-filled bag of dirt, then the smaller pots, I was ready to shove the next set of bricks in when I realized that there was no padding between one pot and the largest one at the bottom.
My heart seized in my chest as I pulled up the pot to confirm my suspicions.
The kilos of heroin I’d placed there last time were gone.
Gone.
“No. No no no no no,” I hissed, voice high and hysterical.
Forty tofour hundredthousand dollars of drugs belonging to a fucking organized crime syndicate.
Gone.
I stumbled back out of the shed with the next batch of heroin still safely in its garbage bag.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” I muttered to myself over and over as I walked somewhat aimlessly, not really sure where I was going, just following where my legs were deciding to leave me.
It wasn’t until I was standing at the edge of it that I realized where I’d automatically gone.
Home.
Well, my childhood home.
I hadn’t been back in a while.
My mom was still alive. Still drinking. Still shacking up with random shitheads.
To say our relationship was strained was an understatement.
That said, she was still my mom.
And maybe she’d been neglectful, but she hadn’t been outright abusive. So while I made a conscious decision not to have her crazy be a big part of my life, I dropped in on mother’s day and her birthday. Sometimes she was there. Sometimes she was so wasted that she might as well not have been there.
But it had been the better part of half a year since I’d been around. The weeds that had been nearly knee-high the last time I’d been around were all dead and fallen over.
The back window that had been busted by one of her charming boyfriends was still broken, covered by plastic wrap that was slit in the center, so the plastic was dancing a bit in the slight breeze.
Was it risky as fuck to put that much money worth of drugs in the home of an addict?
Yeah.
Of course.
Even though heroin wasn’t her poison, the money it could fetch would buy her a shitton of her personal life-ruining shit.
But I wasn’t planning on putting it somewhere that she was going to find it.
Pulling the picnic table back into place much the way I had done all through my high school years, even though I’d been sure she didn’t notice when I was sneaking out, or gave a shit if or when I came back, I climbed up, pulled out the screen, slid up the window, then hauled myself and the drugs in.
My bedroom was pretty much the same as I’d left it, save for the fact that anything valuable was long gone. The small TV I’d had. The sound system I’d saved up to buy for months. Clothes, shoes, CDs, it was all gone.
