Sunday. Fucking hell of a Sunday. It's supposed to be a day of rest. My balls. For me, it's the day of the fucking monkey.

I woke up with the bug inside. It's not hunger for food, damn it. It's an itch in my bones, a stripped cable in my brain that's asking for a discharge. I need the shot. The shot of humiliation. I need Leo.

But the camel isn't dealing today.

The house is in a silence that's suffocating. My parents, fucking off somewhere. Only the fucking pig of my brother can be heard snoring in the bed next to me. The fucking king sleeping off his hangover. His side of the room is a pigsty. A chaos of thrown clothes that reeks of him, of his fucking winner's life.

And amidst all that shit, is my dose. His clothes from yesterday.

I get out of bed dragging myself like a fucking cockroach. The floor is freezing. Every creak of the wood is a fucking heart attack. I pray that the pig doesn't wake up and catch me. On all fours. That's how I move around my own room. On all fours to steal my brother's shit.

There it is. The shirt. The shorts. Stiff. Starched with dry sweat. I grab them. The touch is disgusting. I go back to my bed, my cave. I cover myself up to my head.

And I breathe.

Damn. The punch of the smell. Sour sweat. Cheap deodorant. And that smell of male that permeates everything. I close my fucking eyes tight. I try to make magic. I try to make the smell of the shitty locker room turn into the smell of Him. Into his fucking expensive perfume. Into his smell of power.

My hand is already on my cock. Hard as a fucking stick. And I start giving it to myself, fast, with rage, as if I wanted to tear it off. My head is a fucking movie: Leo's face, his bastard's smile, his voice calling me "ghost". The smell of Marcos' clothes is the fuel. My hand is the piston.

A shit spasm and that's it. A fucking spark. It's not even relief. It's like pressing a reset button that lasts a second. And then, the void. And the hunger, again, stronger than before.

This metadona shit doesn't do anything for me anymore. Tomorrow. Tomorrow at the tutor's. Tomorrow I'll catch my camel. Or I'll burst.

I've thrown Marcos' clothes into a corner of my bed, like an animal hiding its food. The rest of the morning has been a fog of trying not to think. I've tried to draw. Only fucking broken lines come out. I've tried to read. The words are a swarm of ants. I can only think about the next shot.

And it's noon.

Marcos was in the living room, lying on the couch, playing fucking FIFA. The volume is blasting. Shouts, insults at the screen, the fucking king in his element. I passed by behind him, on my way to the kitchen, trying not to breathe, not to exist.

"Hey, dwarf."

I stopped dead in my tracks. He didn't even turn to look at me.

"Come here."

I approached like a fucking condemned man to the gallows. He just pushed som...