Paint Me, Professor | Student-Professor Erotic Novel | 18+ | ✔️

77 - "I Need You"

Christopher
***

I hit the blunt and let the leafy smoke fill every nook and cranny of my lungs. I leaned back on the couch, accidentally kicking my anxiety medication on the floor. I didn't pick it up because I wasn't going to need it.

I needed something stronger, something immediate, something that would actually alter my thought pattern and make me forget.

If Kent, Professor Agnes or my therapist knew I was smoking pot they'd kill me.

As the drug made its way to my bloodstream, my tears dried up. I was no longer feeling nauseous or that knot at the back of my throat. I was just relaxed, fatigued even, and that tiredness helped me not only forget that I had too many missed calls from Ali on my phone, but also fall asleep without picturing her by my side under the covers.

For the last month, when I wasn't painting or working, I was smoking weed, making this list of three things the only remedies to forget what a fucking piece of shit I was.

Sometimes it backfired though, and these three created the opposite effect and reminded me like a punch to the gut that I was breaking Ali's heart more and more every day. If I was working and I saw her at Evergreen my stomach would sink, if I was smoking and I thought of her soft, warm body against mine my lungs would choke, if I was painting and I remembered all of the wonderful things we had done together I'd cry.

The only one to blame for this situation was me. I should have never allowed us to get so close, I should have never allowed myself to fall for a twenty one year old student.

There were times at night, especially during the weekends, when I thought I was going to lose my mind. Knowing that she wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with her was physically painful. The only way for me to fall asleep was if I smoked, and so every week I met my dealer to top up.

"Haven't seen you in years dude," he said, a cigarette between his teeth, his face hidden in a hoodie. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I thought you were clean."

I knew I was fucked up when even my dealer asked me if I was alright.

"Mind your business," I growled, wanting his look of concern to disappear from his face.

"I've heard rumors that you've been to rehab," he protested. "I don't feel comfortable about this. You're gonna relapse."

I handed him the money. "Wow, a drug deal with a moral conscience. How poetic."

He laughed and handed me what I wanted. It was the only thing that could settle my spiraling thoughts and provide respite from the constant heaviness and tightness in my heart.

I knew what I was doing wasn't good. Weed was my getaway drug of choice, but this time was different. Sure, I was heartbroken, but I hadn't hit rock bottom. As long as things didn't get worse, as long as I kept my promise to not hurt Ali, I'd be fine.

And yet the night came, and I was alone. I was so fucking alone it hurt. In my solitude my thoughts got out of control and I became inconsolable. The narrative that I fed myself every day was that I was doing this for her own good, that later in life she'd thank me for letting her go, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I was scaring her more, breaking her already shattered heart.