Young Writers Society

Dear Tara,

You weren't hard to spot. I've seen millions like you, and there will continue to be millions after you. The destruction of humanity fuels the need for my friends and I; people everywhere will always look for an escape. Isn't that what you wanted? A way out of the life you never asked for. I call us Hell's Angel. We give relief and comfort, escape and pleasure. The only downfall, you humans don't know when to stop. You're cute in the beginning, just a line of coke here to live out the party, just a hit of heroin here to come down from the coke. You go on about your days with your jobs, your friends, your loved ones, thinking no one is noticing your slow downfall, and maybe you're right. But, I love how it's always our fault when your lives decrease in worth, slow to a hault, and you can't keep anything tangible.

I originated across the seas, but people hungry with greed smuggled me into your cities for money and upkeep. From one man's pocket to another, I made it into the poorest cities. Families with no incomes, no futures, no hope. I bring a tiny piece of comfort and stability. I create a lifestyle, and soon they can afford rent and food. All at a cost because the men in blue decided there should be a war against us. Forcing your fathers, brothers, cousins, nephews to scour the underbellies of the city in darkness to not get caught.

The first time I saw you, you looked like one of the clean ones. I couldn't tell if you belonged here or not, and when you turned down the chance to inhale me I knew it'd be a fight to entice you. How to lure you in was a question for the humans; I just had to be available in the perfect timing.

Ready or not here I come,

Cocaine