Sunday's generally my day off. So, I slept late, hung around the house, did fuck all 'til nearly dinner time. Now, I'm headed up to the compound to have a look in the clothes box-- Tom needs a new pair of shorts and Mack's been complaining about wantin' better shoes, whatever the fuck that even means.
It's all easy, domestic monotony, which I mind a hell of a lot less than I ever would've thought, but just like that, that peaceful little bubble shatters. I cross the clearing toward him without thinking, seeing that unnatural way he collided with the swing set and how he's just sorta leaning there, twitching.
"Dodge!" I say, raising my voice just a little, 'cause he's on his feet but he hardly even looks conscious. He's... fucked up. Take one look and I know. I don't got a whole lot of experience with the hard shit, but this... this couldn't be more obvious. "Man, what the fuck did you take?"
It was so fuckin' hard to focus on anything. He blinked and his eyes remained shut for a long moment before he practically forced them open. Dodge stared at Neil, amazed at how dark it seemed and how hazy it was.
"I, uh," he said lamely. He didn't know how to form the word with his tongue like cotton in his mouth. He just held out his arm so Neil could see his tracks and the dried trail of a drop of blood.
"Shit. Okay," I say, stepping in close, closing an arm around his bicep-- fuckin' Christ, he's skinny -- and tugging him gently toward me.
His eyes... I've never really noticed what color they were before. Green, maybe, or blue, but now, light with those tiny pupils, they look eerily glazed and unseeing.
"We're goin' to the clinic, alright? You look like shit, and if you fuckin' die on me, I'm gonna be pissed."
What a lot of people just didn't get was how after a while, nothing mattered but the shot. Eating? Fuck that. A little bump killed any hunger. Fucking? Whatever. The junk killed your hard on anyway. Pretty much everything just fell to the background, even the things you enjoyed because there came a point when you didn't enjoy anything more than that rush of peace without pain.
"Okay," he replied agreeably, stumbling away from the swing set and taking hold of Neil. Dying didn't sound good. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die...he still had like a quarter of a brick left.
"Okay," I echo, heaving out a shaky breath and sliding an arm around him, knowing there's no fuckin' way he's gonna make it without me practically carrying him there.
Goddammit. "You fuckin' asshole," I mutter quietly, almost to myself, feeling a surge of anger rise up right alongside the lowgrade panic that made itself known the second I saw him standing their trembling like a fuckin' leaf. He is not my responsibility, and I got no remorse for not lookin' after him or whatever, but I just... Christ, I don't know. The second I met him, I couldn't help but hope that this place'd let him get his shit together.
And now he's fuckin' ODing in the goddamn playground, which is morbidly hilarious, in a really sick sort of way. The same way me givin' head to middle aged assholes in the parking lot of one five fuckin' years ago was so fuckin' ironic or whatever.
"Come on," I mutter, steering him toward the Compound, my hand resting briefly on his cheek, his skin flushed and damp.
Dodge staggered along, grateful to have someone to help with the last million miles. He'd hit the playground and had been sure he'd never make it the rest of the way.
"Thanks," he rasped, his mouth so fucking dry. How could sweat be pouring off of him and yet his mouth was like a desert? Unbelievable.
He took one more step and his knee went soft and made him stumble. In a fucked up chain reaction his thigh cramped up rock hard and then his gut siezed and cramped and Dodge doubled over, whimpering like a little bitch. If he'd have been in Toronto, Fagin would have taken care of him but he wouldn't have put up with any whining. Dodge knew that to be a fact and he tried hard to stifle the sound.
"Shit," I hiss, splaying a hand out on his chest when he doubles over, feeling like he'll just keel right over, face first, if I don't hold him up.
"Dodge, come on, man. It's not far," I say, slinging one of his arms around my neck and then, with an arm tight around his waist, waiting until the worst of the tremors die down before I start trying to bodily drag him toward the building just up ahead.
He did his very best to keep up. It was so hard. Every step made it harder to breathe and the longer he was on his feet the more his head was swimming. He began to babble nonsense words that stuck in his mouth that was dry and sticky and only got worse the more he tried to talk, to explain what he had done. What he had done for years.
It's all easy, domestic monotony, which I mind a hell of a lot less than I ever would've thought, but just like that, that peaceful little bubble shatters. I cross the clearing toward him without thinking, seeing that unnatural way he collided with the swing set and how he's just sorta leaning there, twitching.
"Dodge!" I say, raising my voice just a little, 'cause he's on his feet but he hardly even looks conscious. He's... fucked up. Take one look and I know. I don't got a whole lot of experience with the hard shit, but this... this couldn't be more obvious. "Man, what the fuck did you take?"
Like I don't already know.
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"I, uh," he said lamely. He didn't know how to form the word with his tongue like cotton in his mouth. He just held out his arm so Neil could see his tracks and the dried trail of a drop of blood.
Reply
His eyes... I've never really noticed what color they were before. Green, maybe, or blue, but now, light with those tiny pupils, they look eerily glazed and unseeing.
"We're goin' to the clinic, alright? You look like shit, and if you fuckin' die on me, I'm gonna be pissed."
Reply
"Okay," he replied agreeably, stumbling away from the swing set and taking hold of Neil. Dying didn't sound good. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die...he still had like a quarter of a brick left.
Reply
Goddammit. "You fuckin' asshole," I mutter quietly, almost to myself, feeling a surge of anger rise up right alongside the lowgrade panic that made itself known the second I saw him standing their trembling like a fuckin' leaf. He is not my responsibility, and I got no remorse for not lookin' after him or whatever, but I just... Christ, I don't know. The second I met him, I couldn't help but hope that this place'd let him get his shit together.
And now he's fuckin' ODing in the goddamn playground, which is morbidly hilarious, in a really sick sort of way. The same way me givin' head to middle aged assholes in the parking lot of one five fuckin' years ago was so fuckin' ironic or whatever.
"Come on," I mutter, steering him toward the Compound, my hand resting briefly on his cheek, his skin flushed and damp.
Reply
"Thanks," he rasped, his mouth so fucking dry. How could sweat be pouring off of him and yet his mouth was like a desert? Unbelievable.
He took one more step and his knee went soft and made him stumble. In a fucked up chain reaction his thigh cramped up rock hard and then his gut siezed and cramped and Dodge doubled over, whimpering like a little bitch. If he'd have been in Toronto, Fagin would have taken care of him but he wouldn't have put up with any whining. Dodge knew that to be a fact and he tried hard to stifle the sound.
Reply
"Dodge, come on, man. It's not far," I say, slinging one of his arms around my neck and then, with an arm tight around his waist, waiting until the worst of the tremors die down before I start trying to bodily drag him toward the building just up ahead.
Reply
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