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    There's an unwritten rule when you're living on the streets: you don't touch other's stuff. Unless, of course, you're told you can.

I found it laughable at the time: it's illegal in this country to 'sleep rough' and beg on the street, except if you've got nowhere to live, where exactly are you meant to sleep? There are, of course, hostels and everything, but with the growing rate of homelessness – even five years ago – they were always full. Or if they found you high or anything, they wouldn't take you in.

Either way, during those days, everyone else sleeping rough knew where we'd sleep, and we'd know where they slept. If anyone ever went anywhere, there'd be a passing of acknowledgement and we'd all look out for the other's stuff. If anyone ever stole or messed with your stuff, it'd be the end of you. Everyone would shun you – it felt like a village of old or something.

But the thing that always got me was how there was just a sense of community. You were all there on the streets for various reasons, but there was a sense of acceptance. No matter your reason, you'd be accepted.

Isaac was always well-liked on the streets. Before he was in prison, he was low on the gang's hierarchy, but on the streets, he was a God. Everyone looked up to him, whether they were older or younger than us. They looked to him for guidance on anything, and they worshipped him.

The weird thing is, back then, he was a mess. After we got together, and he got me hooked on the drugs, he let himself go – as did I – because of the life he really had. He was as skinny as anything, wore dirty clothes, black hair was long and unkempt, and obviously, his health was awful. No tattoos, no nothing.

Seeing him here, in my flat, is like a juxtaposition to how I remember him. The day the police took us in was a particularly bad one. He was withdrawing hard because we hadn't had a fix in a day or two, his clothes had rips in, and his hair was just... awful. Because the police saw how bad my toxicity with him was, and along with the danger of the gang, they and the CPS allowed me to testify against him without going to court, so I never saw Isaac after he was carted away in a police car.

The man scrubs up fucking well. He looks like a successful man who didn't live a life addicted to heroin and living on the streets before prison. It makes me rage inside. Who does he think he is?

"Who has a key, Avie?" His voice is light and inquisitive, and there's a lopsided smile on his face.

I stay silent, unable to even think about what I want to say.

"May I?" he asks, pointing to the sofa.

"I—sure." Why did I agree to let him sit down? I mean, it's not like he's going to leave without saying whatever he's here to say, so he may as well stop littering up my carpet.

My hands quickly tap out an SOS message to August and hit send before making myself look busy in the kitchen area.

"I'll have water if you don't mind. Parched," Isaac says, throwing me another grin.

"Sure." My phone buzzes as I fill up a glass. August telling me he's on his way.

"You've done well for yourself, Avie. How'd you manage this?" He takes in the flat.

It's by no means amazing; all my furniture has been in here for a long time and bought over the years. Some have been gifted, and the flat itself is basic by today's standard for someone my age – and compared to what August has, for example – but it's home. It's off the street, in a warm building. It's a mansion compared to life on the street, and I wouldn't trade this for the world.

When August paid for my deposit and the first few months' rent as my sponsor, he made sure I could afford it with my wage, and when I offered to pay him back, he refused. With the money I have now, I could easily move somewhere bigger or to a nicer part of the city, but this is home, and the compactness of it makes me feel comfortable and safe. There's something humble about coming home and feeling like this is a luxury because it is to me.

"Got clean, found a job, and worked hard."

He just nods and stays silent when I walk back to him. I put the glass of water on the coffee table.

"Got yourself a flat-screen TV and a console? Damn, Avie. Really living the life, huh?" He sips the drink and smirks. "The police said you got out with a caution because you'd been high and in possession, but only your first run-in with them."

Our eyes meet for a split second, and everything between us is said silently. He knows what I did. I always knew he did, but this look confirms his anger burning in those blue eyes.

"How... how did you even know where I live?" I stammer.

Part of my getting clean was not just about the drugs, it was about realising what led me down that path, and the answer was clear: Isaac West. While I made those choices to inject and snort heroin, live on the streets and be with him, it was because I was weak and wanted to impress him.

Looking back, it's crazy. All of that was just to impress this man. While he might look good now, he's still a lowlife gang thug junkie. I don't know much about him now, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out he hasn't turned his life around. The gang life he walked into halfway through our time on the streets gave him a better life – until he got caught.

"I have my ways."

The problem with heroin is that it doesn't smell because it comes from poppies. When we were on the streets together, Isaac smelt like body odour and cigarettes, and sometimes coffee, if we were lucky enough to get some.

He doesn't smell like anything right now. Maybe an old stench of cigarettes.

When I detoxed, August gave me a vape pen with some random flavoured shit they pump in. No nicotine, but whatever was in that thing was bubble-gum flavoured because I used to chew bubble-gum to help me cope with withdrawals. As I got through the detox, I puffed on the pen less and less. August hated smelling the bubble gum smell, and I hated it as I got to the end, too. Now I cannot stand the stench, and I stay away from anything like cigarettes, alcohol, and gambling – anything with an addictive type of pull is on my no list.

"So, my girl has done well for herself while I've been on the inside, huh?" He clicks his tongue. "That way you ignored me for years, Avie?"

A chill rolls up my spine at that nickname. I haven't heard it for years, and thank fuck I haven't. I hate it. I hate him.

"Your girl? Isaac, I haven't been yours since the day they took us to the police station. Did my silence, my not turning up to your court hearing... all of that... did you not realise that was a sign?" I cock my head in confusion. Despite the years of drug addiction and non-education, Isaac has always been a smart guy. This is weird for him.

He laughs. "What? Of course you're mine, Avie. You've always been mine. Sweetheart, while I was in prison, there were some changes in the gang."

Oh, fuck, here we go. He stands up and approaches me. The stench of tobacco and nicotine invades my nose. This is not good. I hate it so much.

He carries on, "I rose to the top, darlin'. This is it, everything we suffered for. I'm the top dog, the leader. The penthouse is mine now, the money is all mine with the biggest cut. Remember when we were on the streets doin' the shitty jobs? They all answer to me now. I'm the one they look up to. You're my queen, and I'm the fucking king of this castle."

He's the leader of the gang now. Fuck. I can only imagine what he did to get there.

I don't want to know.

"All the shit... it's ours now, darlin'. All those years on the streets, working hard... it paid off."

"Do I want to know what you did to get to the top?" I retort, though the moment I ask, I know I still don't want to know the real reason.

"You probably don't, no. It doesn't matter, anyway. It's all ours now, Avie. We've done the hard part. Let's live the life we were meant to. No one will touch you now; you're mine."

I snort. "Isaac, I've not been yours since we were nineteen. I'm my own person now, and I'm away from that life."

He stops and cocks his head. His left hand reaches up and wipes his mouth ever so slightly. The mouth that smirks, that I used to enjoy kissing. Now it just looks awful.

"Who were you expectin'? When I turned up? Who has a key to this place?"

I shake my head. "No one."

"How did you manage this little setup, doll?"

He doesn't get it. I want nothing to do with him. I don't want to answer his questions, and I want him to leave.

"Isaac, you need to leave." I step sideways toward the front door. "My life is different now and I like it."

His hand reaches out, but I recoil away. In response, a growl comes out of his mouth like a territorial dog.

A shackle appears around my wrist; Isaac's arm. "That wasn't a request, Avie. I spent five years behind bars, workin' hard. Getting clean. Grafting. You ignored me all these years, and now it's time I take back what's mine."

"Isaac, let me go."

He leans in closer, the scent of expensive aftershave he used to spray in department stores we camped by just so he could smell of something other than dirt and drugs pick up. It forces itself through my senses, sending memories of street-side highs and lows – literally – through my brain. Those are memories I've long buried during my detoxing months.

"Avie—"

"Stop calling me that." My voice sounds way too pleading, and I hate that fact.

"You are mine. You're never like this. So tell me... who were you expecting? A man, huh?"

I clamp my mouth shut, but his free hand reaches up, thumb and index finger gripping my mouth. "You're going to listen to me, Avery. When I let go of this pretty little mouth, you're going to open up and tell me who he is and why you've been ignoring me all these years."

I groan; an attempt to tell him no, but he pushes against me.

"Uh, uh, uh, you're not denying me, Princess."

Princess. Avie. Darlin'. All these nicknames weren't a thing back then. He'd only ever call me Avie or Babe. Not once has he called me Babe yet. I hope he doesn't. It sends the memories swimming in my brain, ice rolling up my spine.

Looks like prison has changed him with his confidence. Maybe it's not actually prison, but the new look and status. Is he clean? Maybe it's that.

His hands are shaking as he pushes my mouth away from him. His other hand is still clamped around my wrist, though.

I used to shake when I was withdrawing. Maybe he's upgraded from heroin. Maybe he's just been addicted for so many years like a rockstar from the eighties you see shaking because they were addicted for so many years.

I don't shake anymore. Well, I was so fucking lucky, thinking about it. My detox was hard as fuck, and the years of therapy have been helping me make sense of myself, but I'm still not there.

The problem with drug addiction is that the addiction may last for a short amount of time, but the after-effects are forever. For two years, I was addicted to heroin and Isaac. It took me two hours to get over Isaac and exchange his freedom for my own. It took three and a half months for me to get over my heroin addiction medically. But the health conditions, mental health issues that crop up every so often, and the fright have been there ever since and always will be forever more.

Before I met Isaac, I wanted to be a doctor. But before that, I was always interested in history and the Egyptians. Their fascination and living for their afterlife intrigued me. One thing that would make me think is how things like addictions or illnesses worked back then. Obviously, people got sick and had addictions or whatever – after all, humans are still humans no matter when they were alive – but did things like disabilities and illnesses happen in the afterlife too? Was their afterlife a perfect euphoria where things never go wrong or was it just the same as earth?

I'd love to know, to be honest, whether any afterlife in any religion is euphoria. I may be destined for hell, but I'd love to think I could at least atone for things I've done now I'm out the other side.

"Tell me, Avie, who have you been ignoring me for?" Isaac demands. "Tell me—"

He's interrupted by my front door opening.

"Avery?" August demands as he steps across the threshold.

Isaac's hand only tightens around my wrist and he drags me closer to him. We're almost flushed together, and I turn my face so he can't get close to my lips like I know he wants. Though, it's been five years, I can tellhe's happy to be near a woman again. I don't know how long he's been out; however long it's been, I've no doubt he's found himself some fun.

"Get off me, Isaac," I hiss.

"Let her go."

Isaac's eyes narrow, take August in and then look back at me with a questioning look. "You been cheating on me, princess?"

I yank my arm and he fights me. I'm still under his hold. "No, because I'm not with you."

"Who is he?" Isaac demands. "Is this the guy with the key, huh? This who you've been waiting for?"

August approaches. "I'm her friend. Let her go or I'm calling the police. Don't wanna be taken back to prison for assault, do you? You'll be held in custody, no bail."

Isaac smirks, his eyes not leaving mine for a second. "For what? She invited me in here. I've done nothing wrong, mate."

"Assault. Doesn't have to be just a punch." August holds up his phone. "Let her go."

Isaac's eyes hover over mine for a second before he groans. "Fine." His hand loosens, so I step away, closer to August. "This—" Isaac points between him and me. "—isn't over, Avie. Not for one minute. Next time I come over, don't you dare call for help. Next time, expect me like you were him, yeah?"

He storms out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

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