I'm slouched in my chair in the room of the youth center, feet planted on the blue carpet, arms folded, glaring at Chase who will insist on making me talk today. What is wrong with this guy?
"No," I say for the third time. "My cravings have been a lot better. I'm not making that up. It hasn't been a struggle lately." What I don't tell him is that the binding is what's definitely satisfied the thing in my brain that always wants to be out of it. When Aiden gives me a dose of whatever that thing is with the power, he soothes the physical urge to swallow a pill. And the effects last for hours. It's the only thing that made being grounded bearable. Even when I'm not high, I feel better. For a while anyway.
But it's also fed something—the recklessness, the internal dance. I want to be bound more than I want to do pills. Which is the weirdest sensation. Especially knowing that it doesn't hurt me the way taking drugs will.
