Addiction to a Natural Drug - Prologue

As I stood on the driveway of our two-story house with Meghan’s arms draped around my chest, one thought kept circling around my head. “I don’t want to leave.”

To the rest of the world, it was a typical Tuesday. Everybody in my neighborhood was curled up in bed. I mean, who would be awake at 7 AM during the summer? The stock market did well yesterday and was going to open high. Or maybe it dropped a few points and was going to open low. Whatever, I couldn’t give a shit. Today was going to be the worst day of my life, and it all started right here, right fucking here on this driveway.

From somewhere inside the house, a bright piccolo chirped in my general direction. My mother’s high-pitched, enthusiastic voice seemed utterly out of place for this point in time. It was loud and obnoxious considering that it was 7 AM, and I could hear it from outside. The baritone growl of my father didn’t help much, either. It felt more like a kick in the ass than anything else.

“We’re about to leave, Chester!” my mother sung as she walked out the front door. Oh, how I wished my mood could have been musically represented by a major scale at that moment. I didn’t want to leave. Fourteen years. The first fourteen years of my life were spent here in the quiet city of Saratoga Springs, New York. How can one simply walk away from that without compunction? My idiot parents would never understand. They’re just in it because Dad got a raise at his extremely difficult and challenging job. He’s a computer parts salesman.

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If Meghan did not happen to have a forcibly pressed pillow over her mouth, then I would have been royally screwed. She’s a loud moaner half the time and a loud screamer the other half of the time. As soon as I heard multiple footsteps lumbering up the stairs, my adrenaline started pumping.

“Shit, shit, get your fucking pants on,” I hissed at Meghan. I slipped my jeans on as quickly as possible, not even bothering to remove the condom. The thick denim would press my boner to the side, effectively concealing the evidence of our merrymaking. It was a race against time.

Literally half a second after Meghan got her (revealing) jean shorts around her waist, the door opened. Well, wouldn’t you know it, my mother and father were standing in the doorframe, giggling like sixth graders on their first date. I spotted Meghan’s panties right below where I was standing, concealed by the bed. Fucking whore, she must have been in too much of a hurry to put them on.

Completely oblivious to our disheveled hair and wrinkled clothing, my parents looked at each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “We’re moving!”

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Six months later, I couldn’t believe that the date had arrived. The bomb’s timer was audibly ticking down. Wait, that was just my heart pounding hard enough to scare most doctors. Meghan probably thought it was because I was scared to leave her, because she pulled me even closer and whispered, “I’ll always love you, baby. Don’t worry about the move. You’ll always have me.” Hah. I didn’t even feel bad that I was wasting the dumb whore’s time. I only put up with her drivel because she was surprisingly good in the sac (for an eighth grader, at least). Not to mention she didn’t have a gag reflex. Sure helps at the dentist’s office.

I replied, “I love you too. I’ll never forget you,” and pulled her in for one final long and hard kiss. Not because I loved her, but because I needed to have something to think about on the plane ride.

I turned away from her as soon as I released her. She most likely thought that I didn’t want her to see me crying (like I’d cry over a girl I used for pleasure and nothing else). The truth was that if I looked at her face any longer, I would start laughing. I was flipping through all of the memories I had in Saratoga, and the image of her face coated in my semen popped up quite often.

Spotting the car door open, I half-skipped over to it. Leaving Meghan sure improved my mood. I saw her mouth, “Goodbye,” through the window after I slammed the door shut. I gave a half-hearted wave before jamming those blissful noise-canceling headphones over my ears. My English teacher that year told the class that kids use their iPods as an escapism. Like that’s a bad thing. The last thing I wanted was to dwell on the move any longer.

I shot one last glimpse out the window and quickly scanned Oakbrook Boulevard, my former habitat. Excluding the overly nosy Eriksons, nobody would be awake to see my life change in a matter of seconds. Maybe nobody would have cared anyway.