Happiness is a warm gun. [1/2]
anonymous
March 29 2009, 22:37:28 UTC
15 £ get you about a .2 gram lump of sticky brown tar. It looks like toffee, and it sticks to Arthur's finger as he places it on a spoon with his face screwed up in concentration. This soft, sticky tar has less cut than the hard, opaque kind you get. He has learnt that much after a while.
He drops a bit of water onto the lump with a pipette, then stirs it around a bit with the blade of a simple kitchen knife so it doesn't stick to the spoon. Funny, he happened to cut himself accidentally only a day before as he had prepared dinner for him and Alfred, who had (thankfully) failed to comment on his worsening jitteriness and overall appearance. He probably hadn't even noticed. The resulting cut at his thumb hurts as he switches on the lighter and heats the whole stuff from the bottom of the spoon. The tar dissolves into the water quickly and the solution begins to boil. The last bandaid he could find he had saved for wrapping it around the handle of the spoon so he wouldn't burn himself now. The cut on his thumb remained untreated.
The cut, small particles of adulterant, now float around in the water with the completely dissolved tar. With nimble fingers, Arthur pinches some cotton off a cotton ball, rolls it up into a small ball with his fingers and puts it onto the spoon. He smiles at himself, pleased with the flawless ease he has developed over the months. His routine is precise, and he never lets anything go to waste any more. He gets the maximum high for his money. The cotton dutifully soaks up all the heroin.
He picks up the needle and sticks it against the cotton, then pulls up the plunger. This way only the heroin is pulled up, and the cut stays inside the cotton.
Clever, you're so clever, Arthur.
Tapping the barrel with his fingers, all the air bubbles rise up to the top. They are then pushed out with a quick nudge of the plunger.
He pulls the belt around his arm tight. Pumps his arm and makes a fist.
Happiness is a warm gun. [2/2]
anonymous
March 29 2009, 22:38:24 UTC
There was a time he saw faeries, elves, unicorns, dragons in his vision. But nowadays they are a mere blur, muted and shut out by overbearing feeling of numbness.
He inserts the needle into his big, bulging vein and pulls the plunger, a tiny bit. Dark blood flows into the barrel. Now he knows; I'm in.
This is the moment it all boils down to. Now, his isolation won't matter any more. His never decreasing distance to everyone else. His loneliness, the constant ache of his laboredly beating heart. The nagging hurt of Alfred's baby blue eyes, the knowledge that time moves on cruelly, and that he has been left behind on this island, surrounded by people who he has to pretend to scoff at relentlessly, not in need of their assistance or friendship.
These days he is too tired to even cry.
He loosens his fist and shoots about half of the solution. And after a few moments, he feels the rush set in slowly, gaining momentum in his veins with every rush of blood his system sends through his body. Yes. That feeling of warm, old carpet wrapping around his entire mind and body ...
He knows, everything is in order.
He shoots up the rest and barely manages to pull the syringue out again before falling back onto the ground, no, into the ground, feeling his mind disconnect from his body, all of his bones popping soundlessly, as if relieved from a great pressure. Every muscle relaxes, even those he didn't even know he had. His vision doesn't change, it just becomes pleasantly blurry.
There are no gnomes, no trolls, no ghosts or nymphs. There is no pain, no regret, no longing or fear. No hope for things to get better.
Only a blissful warmth filling his empty mind and his bruised, battered body.
15 £ get you about a .2 gram lump of sticky brown tar. It looks like toffee, and it sticks to Arthur's finger as he places it on a spoon with his face screwed up in concentration. This soft, sticky tar has less cut than the hard, opaque kind you get. He has learnt that much after a while.
He drops a bit of water onto the lump with a pipette, then stirs it around a bit with the blade of a simple kitchen knife so it doesn't stick to the spoon. Funny, he happened to cut himself accidentally only a day before as he had prepared dinner for him and Alfred, who had (thankfully) failed to comment on his worsening jitteriness and overall appearance. He probably hadn't even noticed. The resulting cut at his thumb hurts as he switches on the lighter and heats the whole stuff from the bottom of the spoon. The tar dissolves into the water quickly and the solution begins to boil. The last bandaid he could find he had saved for wrapping it around the handle of the spoon so he wouldn't burn himself now. The cut on his thumb remained untreated.
The cut, small particles of adulterant, now float around in the water with the completely dissolved tar.
With nimble fingers, Arthur pinches some cotton off a cotton ball, rolls it up into a small ball with his fingers and puts it onto the spoon. He smiles at himself, pleased with the flawless ease he has developed over the months. His routine is precise, and he never lets anything go to waste any more. He gets the maximum high for his money. The cotton dutifully soaks up all the heroin.
He picks up the needle and sticks it against the cotton, then pulls up the plunger. This way only the heroin is pulled up, and the cut stays inside the cotton.
Clever, you're so clever, Arthur.
Tapping the barrel with his fingers, all the air bubbles rise up to the top. They are then pushed out with a quick nudge of the plunger.
He pulls the belt around his arm tight. Pumps his arm and makes a fist.
Reply
He inserts the needle into his big, bulging vein and pulls the plunger, a tiny bit. Dark blood flows into the barrel. Now he knows; I'm in.
This is the moment it all boils down to.
Now, his isolation won't matter any more. His never decreasing distance to everyone else. His loneliness, the constant ache of his laboredly beating heart. The nagging hurt of Alfred's baby blue eyes, the knowledge that time moves on cruelly, and that he has been left behind on this island, surrounded by people who he has to pretend to scoff at relentlessly, not in need of their assistance or friendship.
These days he is too tired to even cry.
He loosens his fist and shoots about half of the solution. And after a few moments, he feels the rush set in slowly, gaining momentum in his veins with every rush of blood his system sends through his body. Yes. That feeling of warm, old carpet wrapping around his entire mind and body ...
He knows, everything is in order.
He shoots up the rest and barely manages to pull the syringue out again before falling back onto the ground, no, into the ground, feeling his mind disconnect from his body, all of his bones popping soundlessly, as if relieved from a great pressure. Every muscle relaxes, even those he didn't even know he had. His vision doesn't change, it just becomes pleasantly blurry.
There are no gnomes, no trolls, no ghosts or nymphs.
There is no pain, no regret, no longing or fear.
No hope for things to get better.
Only a blissful warmth filling his empty mind and his bruised, battered body.
Reply
Reply
*dead*
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment