The Package

November 22, 2011
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My nerves screamed for reprieve as glass pierced my right temple. The bottle exploded into volatile slivers, mimicking the fireworks I saw as the ground rushed to greet me. My chin met the gravel with a sickening crunch and I screamed out, lashing at my unseen opponent. Spencer was nimble, though, and ran off, sweatshirt flapping in the breeze like a villainous cape behind him with the package in tow. He took it all, my last shipment. I’d already waited long enough. Placing my hand on the filth-covered wall of the alley, I gazed out onto 42nd Street, over to the 7-Eleven, fighting the shadows with fluorescent lights. I turned away; the beams hurt my blood-tinged corneas. Then the scratching began. It started like a slight itch, down at my left ankle, but I didn’t notice it until I was ripping at my skin, desperate to escape. My fingernails searched anxiously for an entry point to end my pain, but to no avail. I have to get another package.

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