When I was younger my mother always told me to share my toys. So I didn’t think it was a big issue when my I saw my dad share his toys with another man. The only problem I saw was when green notes were exchanged. I told my dad this and he just ruffled my chestnut hair and gave me a small container. My dad told me that this container was where we locked up all our secrets.
My young eyes were confused, having been taught the difference between right and wrong, but I listened to my father, as a young boy would have trust in the only father figure he had in his life.
I look around the familiar room, surrounded by what would shortly be the tokens of my childhood memories. Resting on the cot that serves as my nesting place, enjoying the comfort of the soft cool throw and the downy pillow, the dim illumination from the moon through the window was just enough to spark my imagination and get my brain racing with thoughts of the episode downstairs.
The ellipse shape of the tiny pills in my father’s hand slowly being given to a complete stranger crossed my mind. His horrible addiction for money that wasn’t ours made me think if being a drug dealer was genetic, if I would accidently slip into the illicit routine. I remember my father once tell me that money was a dangerous river and only a few have boats. He didn’t need money, he didn’t want too much of it so I don’t know what changed. But I guess now that it’s started, it is really hard to break a bad habit.