How was I supposed to make her understand that, for most of my life, I had been desperate to escape. That the only solace I’d ever been able to find had been in the soothing drag of a joint, or a mind-altering line of coke, in the numbing effect of benzos, or the thrilling buzz of uppers? How could I forget the euphoric fucking feeling of heroin? Because Molloy didn’t know what it felt like to wake up every morning with a strong inclination to attempt suicide.
