Lost fic
Title: The Start of a Habit
Author: elf_skitzo
Rating: R for drug use and language
Summary: becoming an addict 101
Feedback: Please?
The quiet hymn music hurt his ears. Charlie bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep the tears in his eyes at bay. He sniffled a little, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Slowly he walked up to the open casket, half afraid that he was going to break down when he looked over the edge.
He was laying there, looking like he was sleeping. His face was pale, his eyelashes were dark smudges against his cheeks. Charlie felt a pain in his chest, gripping the edge of the casket to resist the urge to touch the soft brown curls by his face. Aylin looked like he had the night before, the day, week, month before. Except.. Aylin had never been that pale. He had never been dead. Strung out, high, asleep, unconscious... but never dead. Aylin had always promised that he would be careful. It was just a habit, he had it under control. I'm fine, Charlie. I use it to keep me going. I'm not a junkie. Aylin had never ODed before.
"You fucking junkie," he whispered, feeling tears stream down his face. He wiped them away angrily - he didn't want them there. Charlie hated crying, hated when other people were around to see. He made himself walk away, nodding curtly to Aylin's parents on his way out. I'm sorry, I can't stay. I'm his best mate and I can't stay.
Charlie stood alone in Aylin's flat, staring at the familiar little box. He opened it: candle, lighter, spoon, clean needles, syringe, baggie. He took out the little bag of herion, stared at it. He hated it. It killed his best friend.
Then he opened it up, took a pinch, and inhaled sharply. The bag dropped from numb hands and all the pain he felt went away in a rush. Tears wet his face as Charlie laid back on the couch.
You fucking junkie.
Author: elf_skitzo
Rating: R for drug use and language
Summary: becoming an addict 101
Feedback: Please?
The quiet hymn music hurt his ears. Charlie bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep the tears in his eyes at bay. He sniffled a little, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Slowly he walked up to the open casket, half afraid that he was going to break down when he looked over the edge.
He was laying there, looking like he was sleeping. His face was pale, his eyelashes were dark smudges against his cheeks. Charlie felt a pain in his chest, gripping the edge of the casket to resist the urge to touch the soft brown curls by his face. Aylin looked like he had the night before, the day, week, month before. Except.. Aylin had never been that pale. He had never been dead. Strung out, high, asleep, unconscious... but never dead. Aylin had always promised that he would be careful. It was just a habit, he had it under control. I'm fine, Charlie. I use it to keep me going. I'm not a junkie. Aylin had never ODed before.
"You fucking junkie," he whispered, feeling tears stream down his face. He wiped them away angrily - he didn't want them there. Charlie hated crying, hated when other people were around to see. He made himself walk away, nodding curtly to Aylin's parents on his way out. I'm sorry, I can't stay. I'm his best mate and I can't stay.
Charlie stood alone in Aylin's flat, staring at the familiar little box. He opened it: candle, lighter, spoon, clean needles, syringe, baggie. He took out the little bag of herion, stared at it. He hated it. It killed his best friend.
Then he opened it up, took a pinch, and inhaled sharply. The bag dropped from numb hands and all the pain he felt went away in a rush. Tears wet his face as Charlie laid back on the couch.
You fucking junkie.