Portrait of a Drug Dealer

The off ramp came as a surprise. Mechanically, I turned the steering wheel. Windshield wipers were keeping time with the pulsing bass pumping out the amp in the trunk, rain sliced through the night sky pelting a dreary line of soulless metallic shells. My knuckles were white, my palms sweaty. As I tried to light a cigarette, the numbness permeating my whole body intensified in my thumb, thwarting my attempts to spark the lighter. I had lost too much blood. Tears came rushing to my eyes, but I stifled them with a long snort. This was no time for weakness. It did not matter that I was alone in the car.


Weakness is a choice. Certainly there are those who are predisposed to weakness, to cowardice, but it is inevitably a choice for which there is no excuse. One may point to past traumatic experiences, one may use their upbringing to rationalize character defects, but it always comes down to a choice. People choose to be weak, and that for me was not a choice. Well, it was a choice, but one that would ultimately lead to either prison or the grave.

-excerpt from Portrait of a Drug Dealer