The Hustler
Content Warning: This story contains themes of addiction, sex work, and death. Reader discretion advised.

The Bedsit
My Kings Cross bedsit pulses with jagged life, drawing every stray and hustler who stumbles through its doors. Fairy lights sputter, casting warped shadows across walls scarred with bloodstains and plastered with Iggy Pop and a sneering Johnny Rotten. The air chokes on stale sweat, cheap perfume, and rotting pizza crusts. A double bed, draped in a scarlet duvet with bloated white pillows, dominates the room’s heart, where I ply my trade.

I’ve spent my last pound on today’s fix, but the craving for gear claws at my skull. My latest punter, a grizzled ex-con with boils crusting his nose, slips me an extra tenner to whisper “I love you.” I crack my whip, and he flashes a broken grin, fresh from the Scrubs and lapping it up. We slap hands as he bolts. I ditched Steve for Eve years ago—men pay more, and it feels truer, even if the mirror spits back a lie. Womanhood’s a grind, but the cash keeps me alive.

Tomorrow, my daughter arrives for our first Christmas since the council tore her away five years ago. I nudge her photo on the bedside table, her smile slicing my ribs. I’ll fix this, love. But heroin’s grip tightens, blurring her face.

The Descent
A hacking cough and a slammed door rattle the stairwell. I stumble down splintered steps in a frayed black dress, forcing my feet into cracked heels. A shattered mirror throws back my gaunt face, clashing with my coal-black wig. Pockmarks and bloodshot blue eyes, rimmed red, scream of Brixton flop houses and street life at sixteen. Heroin’s haze keeps my heart stuttering.

I’m tracking Hector. If I play the lover, he might toss me a free hit. The Honduran dealer swaggers in, all flash with a gold chain and silver cowboy boots. His black eyes glint like sharpened blades, but he offers me a drag of his cigarette, a rare smirk cracking his face. “You good, Eve?” he growls, voice gravelly, then cuts to business. “Gear’s pure fire, señorita. Fifty quid.”

The Deal
I hand over the cash and tilt my head toward the stairs. “Fancy company tonight, love?”
“No free rides,” he snaps, voice thick, but he stomps up the creaking steps to my bedsit above the off-licence. His boots pound the warped boards. I reach for my works, but Hector’s antsy, his twisted desires flaring. “Hold on, love, I fix first,” I purr, flashing a crooked smile to hook him.

His eyes rake the room for anything worth stealing, lingering on my daughter’s photo. Panic grips my chest. Her laugh, long gone—I’d trade every hit to hear it again. I lean in, voice soft as silk. “I love you, Hector. Been dying to say it.” His sly grin betrays a calculating mind.

The Final Hit
I prep the heroin, the needle flashing under the flickering strip light. Hector sneers. “Move it, señorita! Time’s money!” I plunge the needle in, and ecstasy surges, dissolving the world. I crumple onto the sour carpet, gasping. The room spins. Hector rifles through my bag, snatching the cash I scraped for my daughter’s university. She’s sharp as a flame, dreams of being a therapist—with a father like me, she’s got plenty to unravel.

“Wanted more than a punter,” I mumble, vision fraying. Hector doesn’t care. He shoves the cash in his pocket, scowling. The clock strikes midnight. “Merry Christmas, eh, señorita,” he mocks, voice sharp, striding out. His boots echo down the stairs.

The room traps me, my tomb. My heart stumbles, each beat weaker. Her photo watches, eyes bright with dreams I’ll never reach. “I tried, love,” I whisper, a tear cutting my cheek as darkness swallows me. Outside, Hector’s engine roars to life.

That night, thirteen lives vanish within 500 yards of Kings Cross, snuffed out by Hector’s deadly gear.

What drives someone like Eve to the brink? Share your thoughts below.