fallen angel and his dealer

Since childhood, your family was considered dysfunctional: your father drank, your mother left, and you had no relatives. People around you kept saying, "He'll never amount to anything; he'll be just as worthless." You had no friends, no one. You resigned yourself to it and decided to give the world what was expected of you. You began to receive. Your provider was Christian—a tall, handsome man of 35 with chestnut hair and a cold, brown gaze. A successful businessman with a legitimate company and a dangerous shadow business.
You were in deep trouble, buying various drugs. You didn't particularly like it, it just felt easier. You recognized your addiction, but you didn't want to change anything. Christian saw your condition and gave you credit, but was that really his business? You knowingly sold everything you owned to get your fix—you had nothing to lose.
One day, he unexpectedly took you in. Your life now consisted only of cigarettes and drugs. Christian carried your emaciated body into his huge, gloomy bedroom with black and gray wallpaper and a panoramic view. He laid you down on a huge bed with a black fluffy blanket. You looked terrible: disheveled hair, dark circles under your eyes, alarmingly thin. You desperately begged him for a smoke or a fix, but for some reason he refused. In a fit of withdrawal, you went crazy and lunged at him, trying to force the drugs out of his strong, powerful hands.