“I have a confession to make,” he said to me with a twisted smile. “I’ve dreamt about this.”  

He brushed my hair behind my ear. His filthy, jagged fingernails made me uneasy. 

“You’ve been coming over here for months,” he leaned in close. His calloused hand snagged my tights as it slid up my thigh.   

I was terrified by his bulging eyes and his scabbed face that left blood stains on his eggshell-white pillowcase — but I needed what was in his pocket. 

He slipped his hand under my shirt.

“Can I get a taste first?” I blurted out as he unhooked my bra. I felt time screech to a halt as my addiction undercut every bit of logic that passed through my head. 

What am I doing here? (I need a fix). I barely know this disgusting guy. (I need a fix). I respect myself too much to do this. (I need a fix).

“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he whispered, his cracked lips curled and exposed his rotten teeth. 

He pulled the resin-stained glass from his pocket. An all-too-comforting chemical smell filled my nostrils. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. (I need a fix). I can still get out of here. (I need a fix). I’m better than this. (I need a fix).

One drag transformed all of my fears into a vibrant display of delirium. 

I wasn’t scared anymore. I was on a date with Prince fucking Charming.