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nickngregNerd Gone Wild
Chapter 11: You Bleed Like Me
R, 1880 words
A/N: Last line respectfully quoted from John Keats.
Previous Chapter: Chapter 10: Remind Us the Past (is Real)
Chapter 11: You Bleed Like Me
“Sanoma!” The door rattled in its frame from the force of Greg’s fist pounding against it. “Sanoma! Come on, answer the door.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fist resting against the doorframe. It was late; he should have called, but that niggling feeling had exploded into single-minded need. He pounded on the door again, “Don’t be a bitch, come on.” He whined. “Damn it! Come on…”
The door yanked open, a very angry set of eyes glared at him. “Get inside,” she hissed, grabbing his shirt collar. She glanced up and down the street, seeing if his little fit had disturbed any of the neighbours before closing the door. “She’ll be down in a minute,” she said pushing him into the living room.
He paced back and forth in the moonlit room, stepping over various people passed out on the floor. His hands were wrung in frustration, what was keeping her? It had been hours since his last ‘real’ hit, the scant amount in his emergency stash didn’t amount to shit. It hadn’t even taken any of the edge off; in fact it hadn’t even lasted the time it took to get here. Damn if he wasn’t jittery, he ran a hand through his hair, the past thirty some odd plus hours weighed heavily on him. It was way too much to deal with. He shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. And then Nick’s… whatever, on top of it. Like some goddamn twisted soap opera it was. Someone’s throat cleared loudly, snapping him from his reverie. “About fucking time.”
“I’ll take however much time I please,” Sanoma replied coolly, crossing to him. “You don’t call, just show up without so much as a by your leave and expect me to cater to your timetable? I don’t think so.” She stared at him appraisingly.
“She,” he gestured towards the girl who had let him in, now standing with her arms folded on the stairs. “Could have let me in quicker. Left me out on the porch forever. I pay good money for this shit.”
“And so does everybody else. At this hour and with no warning, a girl’s got to protect her own you know? Now what do you want?” She led him into the kitchen.
He pulled out a wad of cash throwing it on the table. “It’s more than usual but-”
“Yeah no shit it’s more than usual!” she hissed. “What the fuck’s going on?” Her eyes narrowed, suspicion hung heavily in the air between them. “You’re setting me up aren’t you?” Her gaze darted around the room nervously; she jerked her head towards the outside, her minion nodding and heading to check out the property. “Answer me!”
“I’m not setting you up I swear!” Greg spat. He just wanted nay needed his stuff and he needed it now. “I just need more and I don’t want to come back for a while. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. I need to forget for a while more than I usually do.”
“Hey Sanoma, we’re good.”
She nodded, “I still don’t trust you.”
Listen I don’t need you to trust me.” He scrubbed his face in his hands. “I just need you to give me the H.” Now. She made no move, just regarded him warily. “I don’t need this shit bitch! Just give me what I FUCKING NEED!” He grabbed her wrist tightly.
A gun emerged in her other hand and he found himself staring down the barrel of a .9mm, the sound of another gun cocking echoed in his ear. “Back off,” she snarled. “You don’t ever fucking touch me!” He opened his mouth. “You know the rules, and right now the girl with the gun and the H makes the goddamn rules! Now sit down!”
Greg flopped into the chair behind him, sighing heavily. “I’ve had enough shit today, I don’t fucking need it from you too. You know what? Fuck this, I’m out of here.” He grasped the fan of bills on the table. “Like fuck I need this.”
“I don’t need you!” she said acidly. “I don’t need you, you need me remember? There are plenty of other poor bastards that come here with their cash. So taking your money certainly isn’t going to break me. Those motherfuckers out there, they’re always going to be here. So the loss of you isn’t any skin off my back. But what about you? You think you’re just going to find another dealer just like that? I don’t think so,” she sneered. “You aren’t gonna find anyone with the amount of H you’re looking for. Nor are you going to find anyone with as pure of stuff as I have. So you walk out that door and you won’t get nothing! But you’re already starting withdrawal aren’t you? Feeling a little edgy? That’s why leaving isn’t even an option. So you just hand over your money like a good little junkie now.”
She was right, but then she was always right. She the dealer, he the user and no matter what he would always come crawling back to her. That was the way of it; he would sell his soul, his life, his everything to get even just a taste of what she had. There was no way he’d walk out of here and she knew it. An empty threat whose words bore no weight whatsoever, just an attempt to pretend to have some semblance of power though powerless. He’d even let her pull the trigger if that’s what it took. He let the money slide from his fingers. “Sorry.”
She snorted derisively, “Bullshit, you just want your fix.” She grabbed the money, counting it carefully, her gun still trained on him. “Be right back,” she said lowering her gun. She disappeared behind a door into her storeroom. He figured she might take her time, make him wait as punishment; prolong his agony a bit longer. He was wrong. “Here,” she said dropping two packets at his feet. He looked at the smaller second baggie with confusion. “Consider it a going away present. You and me, we’re done.” She turned her back him. “Now get out.”
What? No! No. “No!” He leapt to his feet. “You can’t fucking do this to me! You bitch!” The cold metal of two gun barrels pressed again his temples.
“You forget the rules my friend! I’ve got the gun, I make the rules. And I rule that we are finished! You tried to fuck with me once tonight and then you went and had to be stupid and do it again.” He heard the hammer slide back and a bullet slide into the chamber. “I have no qualms about putting a bullet through your skull. I’m giving you one last chance to get the hell out or I spatter your brains across my kitchen. Your choice.” He swallowed heavily. This had gotten way beyond him. He picked up the packets, backing out of the kitchen carefully. He’d let her chill a while before he came back. She’d be less likely to kill him in a few days, and he should have enough for a week or so. Yeah, things would be better then.
Greg tucked the packets away in his kit before he peeled out of the driveway and away from gun happy Sanoma. His hands shook noticeably; he could feel the muscles in his forearms getting twitchy too. He needed some fairy dust bad. The streetlights skated up the hood, bathing the dash in their light, and slid off into the night. Want you. Headlights of oncoming traffic flashed across his face. Need you. Red flashed ahead of him in the perennial stop-go of traffic. Breathe you. The steady click, click of his turn signal as he turned onto his street and into the parking lot of his building. Keep you.
The packets sat on his counter, stark contrast to the light tile. He searched through the cupboards, looking for a glass, a real one. A half bottle of Gentleman Jack standing next to the sink, its amber contents reflecting strange wavering shadows on the tiles. His hand shook as he partially filled the rocks glass, some of the liquor splashed on the lip and onto the counter. It burned slightly as he downed it in one gulp, resting warmly in the pit of his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass on the counter. He retrieved an X-acto from his kit, slicing open the smaller packet, watching as some of the powder spilled out on the tile. He tilted the bag, letting the heroin drop out into a little pile. He pulled a razorblade from one of the drawers, and poured another glass of Jack. The drink didn’t burn as much this time. Carefully he divided the fairy dust into three piles, separating each one with the razor. The piles were pushed and manipulated forming long lines. Thin little strings that stretched the length of a tile and called to him. One line almost one and a half times his usual dosage. And somehow he had never seen anything more beautiful. A third drink joined the others in his stomach. Eyes fluttering closed, he inhaled and sighed contently. He felt a twinge of sadness at the remaining twin lines but only for a moment as he slipped into blissful existence.
God he had missed this; these welcoming arms of chemical existence and their blanketing euphoria. A smile graced his features. He reached for his glass, and watched as he sent it tumbling over the counter edge. It sparkled like diamonds as it fell, light gleaming off the facets like little stars. The amber alcohol looked pretty as it spilled; it reminded him of the golden fairy dust. The glass made a gentle tinkling sound as it shattered, he giggled. He sank to his knees staring at the shards, his own personal patch of stars on the floor. He reached out to touch them, the sparkles of refracted light dancing in his hazy vision. One of the pieces tinged its edge red, he drew back his hand. A thin red line painted across his palm. He watched as it bubbled up, outgrowing the slash and creeping across his palm and down his wrist before falling in a drop to the floor. It was beautiful, the dichotomy of the crimson blood and golden skin. He dipped a fingertip in the pool of his palm, painting a line down his forearm watching as it began a rich red and faded into nothing. He picked a shard and drew it across his arm. The cut turned pink, shifting to red and then spilling over to untainted flesh. He made another line and another, tracing random and winding patterns in scarlet. His work continued over to the other arm until they both were covered in bizarre and winding trails of carmine. He let the shard drop to the floor, leaning back against the cupboards, arms and upturned hands resting on his knees. He stared at the outlines contoured in his flesh marveling. How beautiful, if sorrow had not made sorrow more beautiful than beauty’s self…
Chapter 11: You Bleed Like Me
R, 1880 words
A/N: Last line respectfully quoted from John Keats.
Previous Chapter: Chapter 10: Remind Us the Past (is Real)
Chapter 11: You Bleed Like Me
“Sanoma!” The door rattled in its frame from the force of Greg’s fist pounding against it. “Sanoma! Come on, answer the door.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fist resting against the doorframe. It was late; he should have called, but that niggling feeling had exploded into single-minded need. He pounded on the door again, “Don’t be a bitch, come on.” He whined. “Damn it! Come on…”
The door yanked open, a very angry set of eyes glared at him. “Get inside,” she hissed, grabbing his shirt collar. She glanced up and down the street, seeing if his little fit had disturbed any of the neighbours before closing the door. “She’ll be down in a minute,” she said pushing him into the living room.
He paced back and forth in the moonlit room, stepping over various people passed out on the floor. His hands were wrung in frustration, what was keeping her? It had been hours since his last ‘real’ hit, the scant amount in his emergency stash didn’t amount to shit. It hadn’t even taken any of the edge off; in fact it hadn’t even lasted the time it took to get here. Damn if he wasn’t jittery, he ran a hand through his hair, the past thirty some odd plus hours weighed heavily on him. It was way too much to deal with. He shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. And then Nick’s… whatever, on top of it. Like some goddamn twisted soap opera it was. Someone’s throat cleared loudly, snapping him from his reverie. “About fucking time.”
“I’ll take however much time I please,” Sanoma replied coolly, crossing to him. “You don’t call, just show up without so much as a by your leave and expect me to cater to your timetable? I don’t think so.” She stared at him appraisingly.
“She,” he gestured towards the girl who had let him in, now standing with her arms folded on the stairs. “Could have let me in quicker. Left me out on the porch forever. I pay good money for this shit.”
“And so does everybody else. At this hour and with no warning, a girl’s got to protect her own you know? Now what do you want?” She led him into the kitchen.
He pulled out a wad of cash throwing it on the table. “It’s more than usual but-”
“Yeah no shit it’s more than usual!” she hissed. “What the fuck’s going on?” Her eyes narrowed, suspicion hung heavily in the air between them. “You’re setting me up aren’t you?” Her gaze darted around the room nervously; she jerked her head towards the outside, her minion nodding and heading to check out the property. “Answer me!”
“I’m not setting you up I swear!” Greg spat. He just wanted nay needed his stuff and he needed it now. “I just need more and I don’t want to come back for a while. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. I need to forget for a while more than I usually do.”
“Hey Sanoma, we’re good.”
She nodded, “I still don’t trust you.”
Listen I don’t need you to trust me.” He scrubbed his face in his hands. “I just need you to give me the H.” Now. She made no move, just regarded him warily. “I don’t need this shit bitch! Just give me what I FUCKING NEED!” He grabbed her wrist tightly.
A gun emerged in her other hand and he found himself staring down the barrel of a .9mm, the sound of another gun cocking echoed in his ear. “Back off,” she snarled. “You don’t ever fucking touch me!” He opened his mouth. “You know the rules, and right now the girl with the gun and the H makes the goddamn rules! Now sit down!”
Greg flopped into the chair behind him, sighing heavily. “I’ve had enough shit today, I don’t fucking need it from you too. You know what? Fuck this, I’m out of here.” He grasped the fan of bills on the table. “Like fuck I need this.”
“I don’t need you!” she said acidly. “I don’t need you, you need me remember? There are plenty of other poor bastards that come here with their cash. So taking your money certainly isn’t going to break me. Those motherfuckers out there, they’re always going to be here. So the loss of you isn’t any skin off my back. But what about you? You think you’re just going to find another dealer just like that? I don’t think so,” she sneered. “You aren’t gonna find anyone with the amount of H you’re looking for. Nor are you going to find anyone with as pure of stuff as I have. So you walk out that door and you won’t get nothing! But you’re already starting withdrawal aren’t you? Feeling a little edgy? That’s why leaving isn’t even an option. So you just hand over your money like a good little junkie now.”
She was right, but then she was always right. She the dealer, he the user and no matter what he would always come crawling back to her. That was the way of it; he would sell his soul, his life, his everything to get even just a taste of what she had. There was no way he’d walk out of here and she knew it. An empty threat whose words bore no weight whatsoever, just an attempt to pretend to have some semblance of power though powerless. He’d even let her pull the trigger if that’s what it took. He let the money slide from his fingers. “Sorry.”
She snorted derisively, “Bullshit, you just want your fix.” She grabbed the money, counting it carefully, her gun still trained on him. “Be right back,” she said lowering her gun. She disappeared behind a door into her storeroom. He figured she might take her time, make him wait as punishment; prolong his agony a bit longer. He was wrong. “Here,” she said dropping two packets at his feet. He looked at the smaller second baggie with confusion. “Consider it a going away present. You and me, we’re done.” She turned her back him. “Now get out.”
What? No! No. “No!” He leapt to his feet. “You can’t fucking do this to me! You bitch!” The cold metal of two gun barrels pressed again his temples.
“You forget the rules my friend! I’ve got the gun, I make the rules. And I rule that we are finished! You tried to fuck with me once tonight and then you went and had to be stupid and do it again.” He heard the hammer slide back and a bullet slide into the chamber. “I have no qualms about putting a bullet through your skull. I’m giving you one last chance to get the hell out or I spatter your brains across my kitchen. Your choice.” He swallowed heavily. This had gotten way beyond him. He picked up the packets, backing out of the kitchen carefully. He’d let her chill a while before he came back. She’d be less likely to kill him in a few days, and he should have enough for a week or so. Yeah, things would be better then.
Greg tucked the packets away in his kit before he peeled out of the driveway and away from gun happy Sanoma. His hands shook noticeably; he could feel the muscles in his forearms getting twitchy too. He needed some fairy dust bad. The streetlights skated up the hood, bathing the dash in their light, and slid off into the night. Want you. Headlights of oncoming traffic flashed across his face. Need you. Red flashed ahead of him in the perennial stop-go of traffic. Breathe you. The steady click, click of his turn signal as he turned onto his street and into the parking lot of his building. Keep you.
The packets sat on his counter, stark contrast to the light tile. He searched through the cupboards, looking for a glass, a real one. A half bottle of Gentleman Jack standing next to the sink, its amber contents reflecting strange wavering shadows on the tiles. His hand shook as he partially filled the rocks glass, some of the liquor splashed on the lip and onto the counter. It burned slightly as he downed it in one gulp, resting warmly in the pit of his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass on the counter. He retrieved an X-acto from his kit, slicing open the smaller packet, watching as some of the powder spilled out on the tile. He tilted the bag, letting the heroin drop out into a little pile. He pulled a razorblade from one of the drawers, and poured another glass of Jack. The drink didn’t burn as much this time. Carefully he divided the fairy dust into three piles, separating each one with the razor. The piles were pushed and manipulated forming long lines. Thin little strings that stretched the length of a tile and called to him. One line almost one and a half times his usual dosage. And somehow he had never seen anything more beautiful. A third drink joined the others in his stomach. Eyes fluttering closed, he inhaled and sighed contently. He felt a twinge of sadness at the remaining twin lines but only for a moment as he slipped into blissful existence.
God he had missed this; these welcoming arms of chemical existence and their blanketing euphoria. A smile graced his features. He reached for his glass, and watched as he sent it tumbling over the counter edge. It sparkled like diamonds as it fell, light gleaming off the facets like little stars. The amber alcohol looked pretty as it spilled; it reminded him of the golden fairy dust. The glass made a gentle tinkling sound as it shattered, he giggled. He sank to his knees staring at the shards, his own personal patch of stars on the floor. He reached out to touch them, the sparkles of refracted light dancing in his hazy vision. One of the pieces tinged its edge red, he drew back his hand. A thin red line painted across his palm. He watched as it bubbled up, outgrowing the slash and creeping across his palm and down his wrist before falling in a drop to the floor. It was beautiful, the dichotomy of the crimson blood and golden skin. He dipped a fingertip in the pool of his palm, painting a line down his forearm watching as it began a rich red and faded into nothing. He picked a shard and drew it across his arm. The cut turned pink, shifting to red and then spilling over to untainted flesh. He made another line and another, tracing random and winding patterns in scarlet. His work continued over to the other arm until they both were covered in bizarre and winding trails of carmine. He let the shard drop to the floor, leaning back against the cupboards, arms and upturned hands resting on his knees. He stared at the outlines contoured in his flesh marveling. How beautiful, if sorrow had not made sorrow more beautiful than beauty’s self…
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