When I was a little kid growing up, I didn't expect my life to be what it is now. Or maybe I did. I don't know. It's not like I had some perfect childhood where my parents fully obeyed all the laws. They were known on our street for being the go to for pot. Sure weed is technically illegal, but lets face it, nobody really pays any attention to the minor drugs like that.
Anyway, legal or not my parents found ways to get around laws and avoided ever getting caught selling in the first place. Which is great except it often meant they smoked a lot of the stuff themselves before managing to sell any, as supply and demand wasn't too great in our small village and evidence needed to be taken care of quickly. They hardly complained, but I hated the smell, and their paranoia would reach scary levels at times. Like when I woke up in the middle of the night one time to find my mum standing at the bottom of my mattress, swaying slightly to stay upright on the uneven quilting and frantically scrabbling at the light bulb to try and pry it free from the wall muttering about the government spying on them through the sockets.
All in all I was pretty certain I wanted nothing to do with the drug industry after seeing what it did to my parents; but life doesn't always go the way we want and what started off as a few small errands to earn pocket money so that I could get myself some new clothes rather than the manky second hand ones from charity shops, soon led to bigger and better (or so I tell myself) and that... That's when I heard of Cain.
If you are looking for irony, look no further than me. The daughter of a cop, renowned back home in America for the huge drug busts you see on the news, running off to England and joining a group of drug dealers working for one of the most wanted guys in the business.
I began dabbling in drugs from the minute I stepped foot in high school, a carry on if you will from my already self destructive habits from elementary and middle school where I'd buy up the most ridiculous amounts of sweets and assorted junk food and make myself practically sick each day.
You don't get as impressive of a high from bucket loads of Cola, Mountain Dew and Smarties (the ones before the shitty law banning the excessive E numbers) but I loved the sugar rush I got which distracted me from the fact Dad was unlikely to be home when I got in and Mom was probably off taking some new class in an attempt to prove to herself that just because she was going grey at the roots she was not too old to take up yoga, or a water color course.
On practically all the interviews they did with my Dad he would always take the opportunity to prattle on about his family values and how he loved his job because it gave him the chance to "create a better society for his own family to live in". It was bullshit and he knows it.
I might be the addict who abused substances to get my high, but my dad's an addict in his own right. His high just happens to be the legal kind of busting criminals. Perhaps it was because of the same reasons as my mom and her modern, hip classes to assure herself she "still got it!" Maybe he relished the idea that despite pushing closer towards forty he could still catch a bunch of criminals and put them behind bars.
Whatever the reason I got sick of them and decided to run away. Why England? Who knows, at the time it seemed like the best "FUCK YOU!" I could muster, and any rebellion possible was an absolute necessity to me back then.
Regardless, I did it. I stole a wad of notes from the family safe in the study and cashed them in for a one way flight to the first place I thought of. England, and more specifically London, which was supposedly the "Cocaine capital of Europe". I wasn't sure if it was true or not at the time, but it seemed my best bet.
The details of what happened when I first arrived are somewhat hazy, I mostly just spent the remainder of the money on whatever drugs I could get my hands on, so a good deal of the time I was either high or passed out. When the money was gone I was reluctantly forced to sober up a little which is when I felt the hunger, the cold and the pain. I tried to find work but I didn't really have a clue what to do.
It's around that time I came across Cain.
I am what you might call the perfect candidate for employment when you need drugs handing out.I'm the quiet unassuming type from the outside, the sort you look at down the street with his glasses and neatly parted brown hair and presume he is headed to the library to study for an upcoming test on whatever boring subject he decided to pursue at college. I never planned to get involved with drug dealing, I'd had all the lessons in school and seen all the pictures for myself of how much drugs could really fudge up your lives. The horrific before and after posters of addicts were burned into my retina after being flashed in front of my eyes repeatedly during PSCE lessons by the sweaty balding man they'd hired to do awareness courses for teenagers. The message of these lessons was always to not take drugs. Stay away from whoever offers them to you and tell the police if you suspect anything dodgy.
I guess you could argue I heeded these messages. Believe it or not I've never actually taken drugs myself. I one hundred percent disagree with them and feel nothing but disgust when I see the addicts I deliver to lap up whatever I have for them straight away, even though they know the side affects and all the damage they are doing for their body.
You're probably wondering why with a strong stance against drugs I still work for Cain... Quite simply he pays pretty damn good, and the way I see it is that if you wanna take down your body with substance abuse, that's your deal. Everybody needs to earn a living and my job is no different to the arseholes who sell cigarettes or booze in pubs or street corner shops.
I mean, it's not like I have parents to provide me with handouts of money whenever I need it, so why should I feel guilty over working the system and making my own way in life?
Besides, did I mention I love the thrill of dealing drugs?