Ezra wasn't home, and that was likely (definitely) for the best. He hated it when she used and, unfortunately, it had become a daily thing for the young junkie, despite her promise that it would only be the one time. It just felt so good, made her feel so light and free, and she couldn't stop. Not now. From the very first hit, she'd been an addict. It was no wonder, really. Her mother was the same way. Her father, too.
And now Emilie.
Sister Slaughter had been the first to damn her with the Prax, but now he was getting a bit more stingy with his offerings. She was hooked now; there was nothing else he needed to do to make her one of them. It had been less than twenty-four hours since her last hit but if she didn't get one soon, she thought she might just fall apart with need. She was already twitching, a tremble that was full-body.
It was a month or two before that she met John, a large man with a beard that Emilie was rather fond of, and he'd become her supplier. He was kinder than Sister Slaughter, at least, and when she heard his familiar voice just outside their nest, Emilie sat upright on the mattress and all but scrambled to the door. She'd let most of the candles burn out save for a few, so her eyes were wide and almost reflective when she opened the heavy door.
She glanced around, making sure he was alone, before her expression broke into a slow grin. "Come on," she urged, gesturing for him to come inside.