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Sep. 7th, 2005 03:03 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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nickngregChapter 13: No One Knows What They Are Searching For
PG-13, 2000 words
Previous Chapter: Chapter 12: Your Worth
a/n: yeah I know I said it would be up Tuesday but it's still Tues. somewhere in the world. That counts right?
Chapter 13: No One Knows What They Are Searching For
Three days. He had made it three days. Three days on only two lines of heroin. His hands shook and his body ached for the last remaining hit. He had stared at the perfect little golden line for the last half hour, willing it to multiple on his coffee table, praying to some unknown gods to make his desire true. The gods however weren’t answering, and each tick of the minutes on the clock made the need just a little more painful. It had soaked into his muscles, his blood, into the very marrow of his bones, pulsing within unceasingly. Absently he rubbed the back of his neck, driving away the random sensation that manifested whenever the mood struck. There were times he felt like he was going out of skin, like his insides were desperately trying to get out. Scratching and rubbing at the sensation seemed to make it disappear, for a while at least. Only his precious fairy dust drove the feeling away completely. But this, this was the last full dosage he had, and somehow he had managed to limp through three days barely teetering on the edge of the pain of reality and the blissful existence of narcotic euphoria.
The feeling of desperate necessity built like a wave the last few days, and now its demand was too powerful not to heed. It threatened to crash over him and drown him in his need. Shakily, he knelt beside the coffee table and gave in. The rush was immediate, and he felt himself be overtaken. He surrendered to the feeling, and let himself float away on the receding desperation and into the calm waters of peacefulness.
In reality his body sagged to the floor, head resting against the couch. His breathing slowing and eyes glazing over to stare into far off galaxies of his own design. He didn’t register the stale air, or the artificial darkness from closed blackout curtains that enveloped him. Nor the twinkling shards of glass still edged in blood long since dried a mucky brown. He couldn’t feel the sticky spot where the whiskey had evaporated on the floor either. For all these things didn’t exist anymore in his brain; these superficial pieces of events he neither recalled nor could want to remember.
It was very dark in his apartment, like the earth had opened
and swallowed it whole. Sluggishly he dragged himself up to sitting. He crawled
down the length of couch to the end table, brushing his fingertips over the
base turning it on. The light that assaulted his eyes forced him to close them
tightly before they could adjust properly. He barely opened them more than a
slit once the light was no longer foreign and harsh. He was jonesing for a fix.
The H was practically gone from his system; he had felt it beginning to fade
hours ago. He had felt the blissful feeling slowly erode, being encroached upon
by all things ‘real’ until it faded entirely. He didn’t like this feeling, this
feeling of being weighted and weighed upon. He felt like he was sinking,
sinking into the floor, being sucked down to who knows where. He had to get rid
of it.
Gritting his teeth he pushed himself to a crouch, then using
the coffee table as support to stand. Unsteadily, he stumbled to the kitchen
falling against the counter, fatigued from the effort. He stared at the bare
tiles, breath shallow. There was naught but a fine little dusting of gold.
Fuck. Glass crunched underfoot, he pushed an empty Gentleman Jack bottle aside.
Nothing. A partially full Absolut
bottle knocked against, tipping, resting half over the sink, vodka spilling,
splashing. Nothing. “Fuck,” he
hissed. He pulled open the cupboard above him, moving cups and things,
searching. Nothing there. Crouching,
he opened the cupboard below the counter, the door bouncing off the next
cupboard from too much force. Pots and pans clanged together, their stacks
tipping, handles hanging out haphazardly. He yanked open the next set, pulling
mixing bowls and random things out from their darkened homes. “Fuck!” he
growled. Standing he went for the upper cabinets, grabbing dishes out let them
drop to the floor with a crash until the cabinets were bare. Bottles clinked
jarringly as he pawed through the liquor cabinet, some liquid falling in jewel
hued splashes, their mixed scent wafting up harshly. Nothing.
Bathroom! He raced down the hall, as much as he could on
muscles angry from disuse. Bottles and jars of dyes and product clattered to
the floor, along with cleaner and a million other random things as he cleared
the cupboards in his search. The drawers were yanked from their tracks, turned
over and their contents dumped to the floor in frustration. Compacts opened,
the cakes of multiple colours breaking and scattering across the mess and the
floor. He pulled the door of the medicine cabinet almost off its hinges. One by
one the pharmacy bottles were opened, the pills spilling on the bathmat forming
a multicoloured little mountain. The bottles chucked aside in anger. He dumped
each bottle of soap and shampoo and conditioner from the shower, none
containing naught but liquid. He howled in frustration as he left the bathroom,
tripping on the bottles and whatnot.
He got to the dresser first, wrenching the drawers out one
by one, dumping the contents in a pile and searching them. He shoved the empty
drawers to the side, feeling the insides of their empty cavities for a packet
of the fairy dust that wasn’t there. He rifled through the stuff on the dresser
top, violently sweeping it all off in anger. Turning, he pounced on the bed,
flinging pillows and the bedclothes everywhere. With a yank he tore the
curtains from the canopy frame in his search. Frantically he the pushed the
mattress halfway off the box spring, hoping there was a stash between them. He
moved on to the closet, taking every hung garment, going through the pockets
before tossing it aside. He stuck his hands into the shoes, but felt nothing
but air. He even looked in the hidden compartment in his Creepers. Nothing at all. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
There had to be more H somewhere! That couldn’t have been
the end of it, there was more, there just had to be! Where the fuck was it? He
tore through the music room, knocking over candles and cushions. He kicked his
amp, succeeding in only moving it a few inches. His guitar fell, still in its
stand the head and neck bouncing once, twice, as it hit the floor. He
overturned his keyboard and stand, throwing the keyboard case across the room.
Empty. It made a dent in the wall above the words ‘pathetic little junkie’. The office got the same treatment, papers
and journals flung to floor. Disks, blank CD-R’s, a flash drive strewn across
the desk, the mouse dangling from its cord off the keyboard tray.
The bookcase was rifled through, legitimate novels dropped
to the floor, pages open, bent and torn along with the hollow books open to
their cut out centers. “Come on,” he whined. “There has to be more. There has
to be!” He opened every DVD in his search. Looked behind the entertainment
center, there was dust but not the kind he wanted. He slipped as he stepped
over the media mess, going down hard. He crawled to a patch of floor, moaning
as he hip popped when he stood. The cushions came off the couch, pushed away
lying in a heap beside the coffee table. His fingers dug into the couch,
feeling around, straining for the touch of plastic encasing the narcotics.
Where is it? Grabbing the front edge of the couch, he tipped it on its back,
looking over the floor and beneath its springs. The coffee table bore the brunt
of his desperate frustration as he kicked it repeatedly. He turned, knocking
the table lamp over, the shade coming loose and exposing the bulb.
His kit stood by the door, the only thing untouched in the
whole apartment. He ran to it, dropping to his knees and he popped the latches
on the case. His heart stopped; there it was next to the finger print powder.
With trembling hands he removed the packet and crawled to the coffee table,
eyes locked on the packet. As he ripped open a corner and let the golden powder
pour out he knew it wasn’t enough. He had to get more, there wasn’t nearly
enough for anything. All that and there wasn’t even enough to remotely lose
himself. He let out a strangled sob, slightly hysterical. It wasn’t enough, it
would never be enough. He had to get more, get enough.
“Sanoma,” he said desperation tingeing his voice. “Sanoma, I
need you. I’m out, I’ve gotta have more.”
“We’re done doing business. Forget that?” she replied
coolly.
“Please? I’m sorry, so sorry. I take everything back. Just
let me have some H, just a little bit.” He clutched the phone, fingers turning
white. Silence. “Sanoma? You there? Sanoma?”
“I’m still here, and the answer is still no!”
“Just one more sale, that’s it and then we’re done I swear!”
He sunk inwards, knees to his chest. “I beg you, just a little bit, please?”
“Tough shit!” Call
ended. He let out a small cry and let his hand and phone drop. His chest
hurt, muscles aching and spasming, his skin jumping as they tremoured. He bit
his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. Fingers and hands twitched
unsteadily, his flesh gaining inch by inch the sensation of crawling insects.
He scratched his arms, assuaging the feeling for a moment before it returned
with a vengeance. Harder, he scraped his nails over the skin drawing red marks
in their wake. It felt like he was being bitten and burned alive from the
inside out, like he was going out of his skin. A panicked cry tumbled from his
lips, as he vainly raked claw-like fingers over his arms ripping the scabs from
his wounds away. The sight of his blood smearing and gathering underneath his
nails was too much; tears began to tumble down his cheeks. Why wouldn’t it go
away?
Greg cried openly, his frustration spilling over. He just
wanted it to go away, let him feel nothing, feel normal, feel just as he wanted
to be… untroubled and weightless. The little he had left wasn’t enough, he
wouldn’t even stop for a moment with how little remained. He didn’t have
anything in his medicine cabinet that would do even half of what the fairy dust
could. He sobbed balefully, tears soaking his cheeks, dripping from his jaw.
His need was too painful to ignore, he had to get some. He felt like his throat
was closing, clutched tightly by an invisible hand. Chest and ribs aching, his
heart beating hard like it would thump out of his chest. He dug his nails into
his knees, holding tight turning his knuckles bleached white from the tense
grasp.
A thought seized his mind, who could get him what he needed,
wanted, yearned for? Sanoma refused. Benny! Benny would; Benny could. Benny
was…dead. He cried out, a soft wail bubbling up. Dead. Dead like him. Dead like
they would all be…eventually. But who could provide his need? The others he
knew of were gone, had met violent ends he witnessed. They were dead. All dead.
All he knew dead or found themselves that way. Everyone he touched, dead or
dying. He needed his fairy dust. He needed to be not dead but not alive. He
fumbled for his phone, only the dead could help him now.
“Hello?”
“Please?”
“Hello?”
“I-I need… and you… Please?” He sobbed, keening and
disjointed.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Help me-I-I-… please? Need mo-more. Please? -more?”
“Greg?...”
“Ple-e-as-s-se…” He lay down, curled fetally, clutching the
phone in a death grip. “please… ”
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 09:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 12:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 12:20 pm (UTC)Awesome job, just too awesome.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 02:01 pm (UTC)I can't wait to know what's gonna happen, so much angst!
As usual you rock :)
no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 02:43 pm (UTC)OMG... that hurts... And I'll gladly offer myself up to get hurt again... it's like... the whole desperation oozes off the screens.
There should be more, right?
keeps getting better
Date: 2005-09-07 09:02 pm (UTC)Feeling the pain
Date: 2005-09-08 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-08 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-09 02:15 am (UTC)Yay!
Date: 2005-09-11 06:03 am (UTC)