Post by KT ♥ on Oct 11, 2009 16:11:41 GMT -5
The clock read two. Funny, since he could have sworn just a second ago the little red digits had read eleven-thirty. He had lost track of time. He sat against the side of his bed. His left hand pressed a Kleenex tissue against the inner elbow of his right arm, which hung loosely at his side. His right hand, a half-fist, groped at the crimson carpet that adorned his bedroom floor. The rest of him remained still.
He couldn’t have told anyone how long he had known the substance that now coursed through his veins. It was not blood; no, blood made him queasy, which sometimes puzzled him as to why he had come to love the liquefied monster. Such an evil little thing rarely left a clean wound, yet he still devoured the substance. He knew it was not good for him. He knew it changed him, that it had changed him… But the cravings were so terrible, so enormous. He couldn’t help himself but to give in to the blessed insanity of Addiction. And what a world it was.
His fingers pulled at random tresses of crimson relentlessly as he leaned his head back to rest against his black bedcover. Waiting, waiting, waiting so patiently he thought his skull would shatter. He pressed the tissue closer to his arm as the skin there screamed, twitched, and writhed – and then came the sensation.
His eyes rolled back into his head as the sudden wave of euphoria purged his mind. His body twitched involuntarily and his hand stopped messing with the floor. He dropped the red-spotted Kleenex – and the syringe – in his hands. His vision went black for a moment but pleasantly so. He could see nothing – and then everything was not black but blushing with whites and grays that spun and rotated in complete madness. Another tremor took him. Somewhere in the colors’ mosh, a man handed him a ticket to the world. A childish grin stole across his lips.
His eyes snapped open as the feeling dissipated ever so slightly. Unexplainable emotions settled over him, rendering him motionless. He blinked to check if he was still alive as his head continued to spin. He felt giddy, powerful, invincible even. Such a big effect from a little thing… That was why he adored it.
Heroin. That was what they called it. It was a name to be feared by some and cherished by others. To some it was the Devil, the definition of damnation, but for him, the Devil offered salvation. It was the heroin that picked him up when he felt down, the heroin that gave him the comfort when stress tried to tie down his conscience. Yes, the Devil indeed had saved him, many a time.
Uneasily, he rose from his bedside, standing briefly to gain a sense of balance before starting forward. His feet shuffled drunkenly through crimson as he made his way across the bedroom, stopping only to look at himself in his wall-high mirror. It was not himself he saw as he went to admire the stranger in the reflection; it was a walking corpse, a zombie bathed in black, chains, and emblems. He rose his eyebrows at the child looking back at him. How timid, how small the boy looked. He couldn’t have been any more than sixteen, seventeen at most, and his height certainly wasn’t anything to brag about. He was five four, five foot five if luck lent him some of its grace. His lips curled into a sneer as he ripped his eyes away from the mirror. That wasn’t him. He had never been so puny, so despicably weak-looking. To think the figure he’d seen to be himself was insulting. He ripped the idea from his swirling conscience as he exited his bedroom.
He crept across the oak floor of the hallway, trying to be silent as he made his way slowly towards the staircase. The task proved difficult. His footfalls caused the wooden boards to squeal, and the fact he had never been a light-stepper did not help the matter.
He reached the top of the stairs without detection by his mother, a feat he had thought was impossible. But nothing was impossible. Not with the Devil. He bit his lip as he began his descent down the staircase.
His hand grasped the banister tightly. He could hear his mother talking to his father about their son’s slowly-declining grades downstairs. There was a sense of urgency in her voice and a pinch of cursing. It was quite comical: he could hear the musical Christmas tree in the background of the parental chaos.
He smirked as he reached out to take a step closer to the first floor. He let another follow, and another until he was less than four steps away from the ground and, at most, three yards from the door. His fingernails dug into the wooden banister. He swung his head to the side in an attempt to see if anyone was near the living room arch. He saw nothing. Now was the time.
He risked it. He leapt down from the stairs onto the wooden floor of the entry way. He knew his landing had been less than graceful, though he didn’t let it stop him. He knew he had seconds to get to the door and out. The living room had fallen silent; he jumped for the front door, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked it open. He didn’t bother closing it behind him.
How he managed to get to the garage so quickly, he couldn’t have been sure. One moment he had been fretting about how to get as far away as possible from the house and the next he was in his daddy’s red Corvette and driving down Settler’s Street at a vigorous eighty. The speed didn’t bother him. He wasn’t the puny boy he’d seen in the mirror earlier. He was God – powerful, supreme, perfect. Nothing could stop him. His hands holding carelessly onto the steering wheel, he found himself laughing at the clarity of his dominance. He’d escaped the confinements of his household, the stresses of an oncoming fatherhood… He was free—
He hardly had time to hear the scream of metal against wood. Before he could open his eyes, his body surged forward and broke through the windshield. He flew for a fraction of a second, sustained in midair, and then his skull collided with the telephone pole that had already taken the Corvette victim. In the depth of his mind, he could hear the grotesque crushing of his forehead caving in as it met the hard wood of the pole. The grays and whites halted their dance and faded into mourning black. The Devil left him then, laughing in hideous joy. Eli saw no more as his blood began to run down his face.
He couldn’t have told anyone how long he had known the substance that now coursed through his veins. It was not blood; no, blood made him queasy, which sometimes puzzled him as to why he had come to love the liquefied monster. Such an evil little thing rarely left a clean wound, yet he still devoured the substance. He knew it was not good for him. He knew it changed him, that it had changed him… But the cravings were so terrible, so enormous. He couldn’t help himself but to give in to the blessed insanity of Addiction. And what a world it was.
His fingers pulled at random tresses of crimson relentlessly as he leaned his head back to rest against his black bedcover. Waiting, waiting, waiting so patiently he thought his skull would shatter. He pressed the tissue closer to his arm as the skin there screamed, twitched, and writhed – and then came the sensation.
His eyes rolled back into his head as the sudden wave of euphoria purged his mind. His body twitched involuntarily and his hand stopped messing with the floor. He dropped the red-spotted Kleenex – and the syringe – in his hands. His vision went black for a moment but pleasantly so. He could see nothing – and then everything was not black but blushing with whites and grays that spun and rotated in complete madness. Another tremor took him. Somewhere in the colors’ mosh, a man handed him a ticket to the world. A childish grin stole across his lips.
His eyes snapped open as the feeling dissipated ever so slightly. Unexplainable emotions settled over him, rendering him motionless. He blinked to check if he was still alive as his head continued to spin. He felt giddy, powerful, invincible even. Such a big effect from a little thing… That was why he adored it.
Heroin. That was what they called it. It was a name to be feared by some and cherished by others. To some it was the Devil, the definition of damnation, but for him, the Devil offered salvation. It was the heroin that picked him up when he felt down, the heroin that gave him the comfort when stress tried to tie down his conscience. Yes, the Devil indeed had saved him, many a time.
Uneasily, he rose from his bedside, standing briefly to gain a sense of balance before starting forward. His feet shuffled drunkenly through crimson as he made his way across the bedroom, stopping only to look at himself in his wall-high mirror. It was not himself he saw as he went to admire the stranger in the reflection; it was a walking corpse, a zombie bathed in black, chains, and emblems. He rose his eyebrows at the child looking back at him. How timid, how small the boy looked. He couldn’t have been any more than sixteen, seventeen at most, and his height certainly wasn’t anything to brag about. He was five four, five foot five if luck lent him some of its grace. His lips curled into a sneer as he ripped his eyes away from the mirror. That wasn’t him. He had never been so puny, so despicably weak-looking. To think the figure he’d seen to be himself was insulting. He ripped the idea from his swirling conscience as he exited his bedroom.
He crept across the oak floor of the hallway, trying to be silent as he made his way slowly towards the staircase. The task proved difficult. His footfalls caused the wooden boards to squeal, and the fact he had never been a light-stepper did not help the matter.
He reached the top of the stairs without detection by his mother, a feat he had thought was impossible. But nothing was impossible. Not with the Devil. He bit his lip as he began his descent down the staircase.
His hand grasped the banister tightly. He could hear his mother talking to his father about their son’s slowly-declining grades downstairs. There was a sense of urgency in her voice and a pinch of cursing. It was quite comical: he could hear the musical Christmas tree in the background of the parental chaos.
He smirked as he reached out to take a step closer to the first floor. He let another follow, and another until he was less than four steps away from the ground and, at most, three yards from the door. His fingernails dug into the wooden banister. He swung his head to the side in an attempt to see if anyone was near the living room arch. He saw nothing. Now was the time.
He risked it. He leapt down from the stairs onto the wooden floor of the entry way. He knew his landing had been less than graceful, though he didn’t let it stop him. He knew he had seconds to get to the door and out. The living room had fallen silent; he jumped for the front door, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked it open. He didn’t bother closing it behind him.
How he managed to get to the garage so quickly, he couldn’t have been sure. One moment he had been fretting about how to get as far away as possible from the house and the next he was in his daddy’s red Corvette and driving down Settler’s Street at a vigorous eighty. The speed didn’t bother him. He wasn’t the puny boy he’d seen in the mirror earlier. He was God – powerful, supreme, perfect. Nothing could stop him. His hands holding carelessly onto the steering wheel, he found himself laughing at the clarity of his dominance. He’d escaped the confinements of his household, the stresses of an oncoming fatherhood… He was free—
He hardly had time to hear the scream of metal against wood. Before he could open his eyes, his body surged forward and broke through the windshield. He flew for a fraction of a second, sustained in midair, and then his skull collided with the telephone pole that had already taken the Corvette victim. In the depth of his mind, he could hear the grotesque crushing of his forehead caving in as it met the hard wood of the pole. The grays and whites halted their dance and faded into mourning black. The Devil left him then, laughing in hideous joy. Eli saw no more as his blood began to run down his face.
