syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You watch your new friend Chloe down her four fingers of whiskey in to two solid gulps. You are impressed. You are fascinated by her neck muscles pulling the dark brown nectar into her body where it can begin to change her life in some way she probably thinks is better. At least of the time being. But with those two swallows you are completely in love once again. The same way you are in love with a million women walking down the street. All it takes is a black bra strap slipping off a smooth shoulder, the right amount of eye liner, a white dress that’s almost see through in the sun, black stockings, a laugh, a smile, emerald green eyes. It’s the smallest things you fall for, but unfortunately these things tend to be pretty fleeting. Chloe is wearing a sensible black and white dress, stopping just before her knees that’s not really doing her any favors. Although she is still quite fetching under the low lights of the Green Room. You are sporting you’re usual white t-shirt and tattered blue jeans.
She immediately orders another whiskey and takes her time with this one. Sipping rapidly, but sipping all the same.
You’re falling behind there hotshot, she says.
I’m just a little under the weather you say, and try a solid gulp of your own drink. Your ruined stomach immediately tries to send the liquor back up. You turn your head and put your hand over your mouth and force the dark and brown back down as tears stream down your eyes.
It’s been twenty eight hours thirty seven minutes and oh…twenty six odd seconds since your last shot of dope. Why didn't you go out and cop before you got so sick. Stupid junkie. Big mistake coming to The Green Room. Hoping to score something, anything to at least get a couple hours of sleep that night, you show up to a bar that was practically empty. Chloe had sat down beside you while you struggled to keep every sip of alcohol down. Swallowing vomit and bile just to try to keep the booze down.
She talked a lot about whatever mindless bullshit was on her mind. Her job, her bastard ex-husband, her two miniature Pinschers. You nodded a lot and talked to your drink mostly, praying for your stomach to stay put.
You don’t look so good, but I’m guessing you don’t exactly have the flu do you, she asks.
Ah..it’s just some bug going around.
Its sixty five degrees in here and you’re sweating through your shirt. You can barely hold a glass. How long has it been?
Since what?
You’re a terrible liar.
You give in and finally just say, too long.
Wait here, she says.
She is only gone for a moment, but she hasn't made it halfway back across the bar when you can hear that unmistakable sound of pills rattling inside a perception bottle. She presses the bottle into your hand. You almost weep when you read the label…hands shaking more than ever. Hydromorphone, 8mgs. The good ones. There has to be a least thirty left.
My grandfather had liver cancer.
Nasty way to go, you say. I’m sorry. Everything is telling you to push this well-meaning girl off her chair and make a break for it.
Al least it was quick she says. The cock-sucking doctors and insurance agents pretty much cleaned out his estate to cover the medical bills, plus the funeral. Which was a waste of time. Me, my, sister and mom. The only ones to show up. Oh but don’t worry there were lots of flowers from people who couldn't be bothered to make the trip. So I grabbed anything of value before they could get their gluttonous hands on it. According to my brother who is up at Butler Low doing 6-8 for distribution tells me these little pills can fetch quite a price from the right people.
Why are you handing them to me?
Well I can see you’re in pain. I don’t judge. I've seen it in my brother hundreds of times. Why don’t you take a couple to get well and you can help me sell the rest. I’m only in town for two more nights helping mom with what has to be done. Is this something you could accomplish?
Despite your ravaged body screaming at you to just say yes, thank you, please, you ask if she really thinks this is a good idea.
I don’t have a lot of options here. I can’t get rid of this shit and I need money. I still believe people basically want to help one another. So let’s help each other. She smiles a genuine smile.
You down the remainder of your drink which goes down smooth as ever in anticipation of what’s to come. You take the bottle into the bathroom and take the only stall with a door. You don’t have a rig so you drop trou and squirt battery ass out of your ruined asshole for the hundredth time. You count out three and with no lube up the poop shoot they go. You lay on your side on a bathroom floor that probably hasn't been cleaned since the turn of the millennium. You don’t care. In twenty minutes Morpheus has begun to wrap you in his loving embrace.
After cleaning yourself off as best you can, you stare at the cracked mirror. Pocket a few more pills or just split with the bottle. It’s clear she likes you and wants to trust you, even though you have mumbled your way through the entire exchange. The angel on one shoulder grapples with devil on the other. The angel topples in the filthy toilet and you sneak out the back where they bring the cases of beer and liquor in with a new bottle of thirty-two 8mg Dilaudids and stick Chloe with your bar tab.
Junkie bear wins again. And when the pills run out in less than a week you don’t feel any remorse, any quilt. You just wonder when you’ll be able to cop again. You wish you weren't like this. You wish you could have talked to her, formed some kind of bond, but you didn't even tell her your name.
She immediately orders another whiskey and takes her time with this one. Sipping rapidly, but sipping all the same.
You’re falling behind there hotshot, she says.
I’m just a little under the weather you say, and try a solid gulp of your own drink. Your ruined stomach immediately tries to send the liquor back up. You turn your head and put your hand over your mouth and force the dark and brown back down as tears stream down your eyes.
It’s been twenty eight hours thirty seven minutes and oh…twenty six odd seconds since your last shot of dope. Why didn't you go out and cop before you got so sick. Stupid junkie. Big mistake coming to The Green Room. Hoping to score something, anything to at least get a couple hours of sleep that night, you show up to a bar that was practically empty. Chloe had sat down beside you while you struggled to keep every sip of alcohol down. Swallowing vomit and bile just to try to keep the booze down.
She talked a lot about whatever mindless bullshit was on her mind. Her job, her bastard ex-husband, her two miniature Pinschers. You nodded a lot and talked to your drink mostly, praying for your stomach to stay put.
You don’t look so good, but I’m guessing you don’t exactly have the flu do you, she asks.
Ah..it’s just some bug going around.
Its sixty five degrees in here and you’re sweating through your shirt. You can barely hold a glass. How long has it been?
Since what?
You’re a terrible liar.
You give in and finally just say, too long.
Wait here, she says.
She is only gone for a moment, but she hasn't made it halfway back across the bar when you can hear that unmistakable sound of pills rattling inside a perception bottle. She presses the bottle into your hand. You almost weep when you read the label…hands shaking more than ever. Hydromorphone, 8mgs. The good ones. There has to be a least thirty left.
My grandfather had liver cancer.
Nasty way to go, you say. I’m sorry. Everything is telling you to push this well-meaning girl off her chair and make a break for it.
Al least it was quick she says. The cock-sucking doctors and insurance agents pretty much cleaned out his estate to cover the medical bills, plus the funeral. Which was a waste of time. Me, my, sister and mom. The only ones to show up. Oh but don’t worry there were lots of flowers from people who couldn't be bothered to make the trip. So I grabbed anything of value before they could get their gluttonous hands on it. According to my brother who is up at Butler Low doing 6-8 for distribution tells me these little pills can fetch quite a price from the right people.
Why are you handing them to me?
Well I can see you’re in pain. I don’t judge. I've seen it in my brother hundreds of times. Why don’t you take a couple to get well and you can help me sell the rest. I’m only in town for two more nights helping mom with what has to be done. Is this something you could accomplish?
Despite your ravaged body screaming at you to just say yes, thank you, please, you ask if she really thinks this is a good idea.
I don’t have a lot of options here. I can’t get rid of this shit and I need money. I still believe people basically want to help one another. So let’s help each other. She smiles a genuine smile.
You down the remainder of your drink which goes down smooth as ever in anticipation of what’s to come. You take the bottle into the bathroom and take the only stall with a door. You don’t have a rig so you drop trou and squirt battery ass out of your ruined asshole for the hundredth time. You count out three and with no lube up the poop shoot they go. You lay on your side on a bathroom floor that probably hasn't been cleaned since the turn of the millennium. You don’t care. In twenty minutes Morpheus has begun to wrap you in his loving embrace.
After cleaning yourself off as best you can, you stare at the cracked mirror. Pocket a few more pills or just split with the bottle. It’s clear she likes you and wants to trust you, even though you have mumbled your way through the entire exchange. The angel on one shoulder grapples with devil on the other. The angel topples in the filthy toilet and you sneak out the back where they bring the cases of beer and liquor in with a new bottle of thirty-two 8mg Dilaudids and stick Chloe with your bar tab.
Junkie bear wins again. And when the pills run out in less than a week you don’t feel any remorse, any quilt. You just wonder when you’ll be able to cop again. You wish you weren't like this. You wish you could have talked to her, formed some kind of bond, but you didn't even tell her your name.
