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I knew it would come to this.
Washed up vagrantly on the shores of a squat. Broken plywood-covered windows staring emptily back at me. Overgrown mossy bricks whisper encouragement. “Knock” I heard monotonically.
I did.
Three dull thuds on a flaky-painted beige door and a patient silence. Curtains twitched and glared with eager eyes at my gloomy silhouette.
“What?” quizzed the creaky letterbox.
“I’m looking for a place to stay” I murmured, “Can you hook me up?”
The letterbox closed and an iron-tinged click followed. Darkness crept out of the house into the purple early-evening murk. “Go in.” said the monotone voice in my head.
I stepped into the blackness and my pupils plumped. “Follow me.” Requested a husky shadow.
I did.
A yellowing kitchen appeared at the end of the hallway, and what used to be an oven held my kryptonite, my steroid, my saving grace and my misery in one clear food bag. “Hold this” said an arm extending a spoon towards me. I did.
The beige-gold crystals fell from the bag onto the spoon and the spark of a lighter flashed at my fingertips. The crystals melted to a charred brown fluid, simmering away on the glowing fork. My lips grinned wryly in the dark. Dosage imminent.
The hand poured the vein-syrup into an idling syringe then handed me the dose. I perched shakily in the corner, leading against a wooden board, and injected my freedom.
The hot kiss in my forearm sent me into ecstatic convulsions. Pupils rolled up into my sockets I fell giddily to the floor. My panacea pumping through each and every nook of my body, numbing and soothing. Humiliated and satisfied I slumped vitriolled to the tiled floor and inspected my numbened face, which felt distorted by the hot-cold flushes of sanity creeping over my façade. I propped at my phlegmatic eyes, wandering between my shoes and my ankles in a tantalized entrapment.
The tickety-tock of a mesmeric clock echoing vacantly in the suffocating room. My knees drawn up to my chest in the shrunken capsule, toppling back and forth within my spirit-level bubble. Crucified by my every movement I dip into thoughtful contemplation, then lull into slumber.
Enthused I awake in a surgery-white kitchen. Pupils contract. Streams of sunlight burn through the holey window boards and diffuse into the grey-black room. Propped up on fat fingers I gaze meticulously at my needle-kissed arms, the dotted tracks running from wrist to elbow, interspersed only by scabs and blisters.
A hand passes me a warm syringe and I search for an unbroken patch of skin. I tell myself this is my last time. That I can stop anytime I want. That this is my own free choice. I’m not hooked, fixed, addicted – I’m just experimenting. The voice in my head tell me, “Inject”.
I do
I plunge the syringe into my arm and writhe in pleasure as the hot familiar kiss of syrup replenishes and rebuilds me, as it ebbs away at my soul and character.
Free and trapped at the same time I rub my forearms warm, heating up my scabby wrist-tracks, feeling the warm numbness in my fingertips and neck I slump back against the wall and wait to return to my distant dreams of far and yonder. The voice in my head tells me this isn’t right. My spine twitches and my arms slap manically against the wall, trying desperately to push me to my feet. I kick and thrash manically. The voice in my head tells me “It’s over.”
I give up.
Washed up vagrantly on the shores of a squat. Broken plywood-covered windows staring emptily back at me. Overgrown mossy bricks whisper encouragement. “Knock” I heard monotonically.
I did.
Three dull thuds on a flaky-painted beige door and a patient silence. Curtains twitched and glared with eager eyes at my gloomy silhouette.
“What?” quizzed the creaky letterbox.
“I’m looking for a place to stay” I murmured, “Can you hook me up?”
The letterbox closed and an iron-tinged click followed. Darkness crept out of the house into the purple early-evening murk. “Go in.” said the monotone voice in my head.
I stepped into the blackness and my pupils plumped. “Follow me.” Requested a husky shadow.
I did.
A yellowing kitchen appeared at the end of the hallway, and what used to be an oven held my kryptonite, my steroid, my saving grace and my misery in one clear food bag. “Hold this” said an arm extending a spoon towards me. I did.
The beige-gold crystals fell from the bag onto the spoon and the spark of a lighter flashed at my fingertips. The crystals melted to a charred brown fluid, simmering away on the glowing fork. My lips grinned wryly in the dark. Dosage imminent.
The hand poured the vein-syrup into an idling syringe then handed me the dose. I perched shakily in the corner, leading against a wooden board, and injected my freedom.
The hot kiss in my forearm sent me into ecstatic convulsions. Pupils rolled up into my sockets I fell giddily to the floor. My panacea pumping through each and every nook of my body, numbing and soothing. Humiliated and satisfied I slumped vitriolled to the tiled floor and inspected my numbened face, which felt distorted by the hot-cold flushes of sanity creeping over my façade. I propped at my phlegmatic eyes, wandering between my shoes and my ankles in a tantalized entrapment.
The tickety-tock of a mesmeric clock echoing vacantly in the suffocating room. My knees drawn up to my chest in the shrunken capsule, toppling back and forth within my spirit-level bubble. Crucified by my every movement I dip into thoughtful contemplation, then lull into slumber.
Enthused I awake in a surgery-white kitchen. Pupils contract. Streams of sunlight burn through the holey window boards and diffuse into the grey-black room. Propped up on fat fingers I gaze meticulously at my needle-kissed arms, the dotted tracks running from wrist to elbow, interspersed only by scabs and blisters.
A hand passes me a warm syringe and I search for an unbroken patch of skin. I tell myself this is my last time. That I can stop anytime I want. That this is my own free choice. I’m not hooked, fixed, addicted – I’m just experimenting. The voice in my head tell me, “Inject”.
I do
I plunge the syringe into my arm and writhe in pleasure as the hot familiar kiss of syrup replenishes and rebuilds me, as it ebbs away at my soul and character.
Free and trapped at the same time I rub my forearms warm, heating up my scabby wrist-tracks, feeling the warm numbness in my fingertips and neck I slump back against the wall and wait to return to my distant dreams of far and yonder. The voice in my head tells me this isn’t right. My spine twitches and my arms slap manically against the wall, trying desperately to push me to my feet. I kick and thrash manically. The voice in my head tells me “It’s over.”
I give up.
I liked this.
It ended far too quickly, but was otherwise well written. The drifty, airy ambience was well conveyed and the style was consistent and impressive.
Enjoyable.
It ended far too quickly, but was otherwise well written. The drifty, airy ambience was well conveyed and the style was consistent and impressive.
Enjoyable.
Meka Dragon wrote:
> Is "monotonically" a word?
[URL]http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=monotonically[/URL] yup, it is. It's the present active form of monotone. So you can say "He spoke monotonically" as opposed to "He spoke with a monotone voice".
> Not really a big fan of drug pieces, I just want the characters to
> die, and their stupid junkie faces to be beaten to slop.
Shocking!
I find that you can be abstract with purpose on a drug piece - I'm not promoting drug use amongst kids (much) - but look at all the perty colours!
> Is "monotonically" a word?
[URL]http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=monotonically[/URL] yup, it is. It's the present active form of monotone. So you can say "He spoke monotonically" as opposed to "He spoke with a monotone voice".
> Not really a big fan of drug pieces, I just want the characters to
> die, and their stupid junkie faces to be beaten to slop.
Shocking!
I find that you can be abstract with purpose on a drug piece - I'm not promoting drug use amongst kids (much) - but look at all the perty colours!
Is "monotonically" a word?
Not really a big fan of drug pieces, I just want the characters to die, and their stupid junkie faces to be beaten to slop.
Not really a big fan of drug pieces, I just want the characters to die, and their stupid junkie faces to be beaten to slop.
Glad you liked the obscurity.
The "Can you hook me up" was me trying to be all "street" and use my "G-Lexis" - In retrospect it seems like a line from a Streets song, but I'll leave it there for now.
The "Can you hook me up" was me trying to be all "street" and use my "G-Lexis" - In retrospect it seems like a line from a Streets song, but I'll leave it there for now.
Lovely. The needle-ness had me all squirmy. You dirty bas'.
:)
:)
What's this Kyz? Something floaty and a bit obscure?
Hmm?
Yes, oh yes indeed. Very good.
Except "can you hook me up?"
99% lovely.
Hmm?
Yes, oh yes indeed. Very good.
Except "can you hook me up?"
99% lovely.
I knew it would come to this.
Washed up vagrantly on the shores of a squat. Broken plywood-covered windows staring emptily back at me. Overgrown mossy bricks whisper encouragement. “Knock” I heard monotonically.
I did.
Three dull thuds on a flaky-painted beige door and a patient silence. Curtains twitched and glared with eager eyes at my gloomy silhouette.
“What?” quizzed the creaky letterbox.
“I’m looking for a place to stay” I murmured, “Can you hook me up?”
The letterbox closed and an iron-tinged click followed. Darkness crept out of the house into the purple early-evening murk. “Go in.” said the monotone voice in my head.
I stepped into the blackness and my pupils plumped. “Follow me.” Requested a husky shadow.
I did.
A yellowing kitchen appeared at the end of the hallway, and what used to be an oven held my kryptonite, my steroid, my saving grace and my misery in one clear food bag. “Hold this” said an arm extending a spoon towards me. I did.
The beige-gold crystals fell from the bag onto the spoon and the spark of a lighter flashed at my fingertips. The crystals melted to a charred brown fluid, simmering away on the glowing fork. My lips grinned wryly in the dark. Dosage imminent.
The hand poured the vein-syrup into an idling syringe then handed me the dose. I perched shakily in the corner, leading against a wooden board, and injected my freedom.
The hot kiss in my forearm sent me into ecstatic convulsions. Pupils rolled up into my sockets I fell giddily to the floor. My panacea pumping through each and every nook of my body, numbing and soothing. Humiliated and satisfied I slumped vitriolled to the tiled floor and inspected my numbened face, which felt distorted by the hot-cold flushes of sanity creeping over my façade. I propped at my phlegmatic eyes, wandering between my shoes and my ankles in a tantalized entrapment.
The tickety-tock of a mesmeric clock echoing vacantly in the suffocating room. My knees drawn up to my chest in the shrunken capsule, toppling back and forth within my spirit-level bubble. Crucified by my every movement I dip into thoughtful contemplation, then lull into slumber.
Enthused I awake in a surgery-white kitchen. Pupils contract. Streams of sunlight burn through the holey window boards and diffuse into the grey-black room. Propped up on fat fingers I gaze meticulously at my needle-kissed arms, the dotted tracks running from wrist to elbow, interspersed only by scabs and blisters.
A hand passes me a warm syringe and I search for an unbroken patch of skin. I tell myself this is my last time. That I can stop anytime I want. That this is my own free choice. I’m not hooked, fixed, addicted – I’m just experimenting. The voice in my head tell me, “Inject”.
I do
I plunge the syringe into my arm and writhe in pleasure as the hot familiar kiss of syrup replenishes and rebuilds me, as it ebbs away at my soul and character.
Free and trapped at the same time I rub my forearms warm, heating up my scabby wrist-tracks, feeling the warm numbness in my fingertips and neck I slump back against the wall and wait to return to my distant dreams of far and yonder. The voice in my head tells me this isn’t right. My spine twitches and my arms slap manically against the wall, trying desperately to push me to my feet. I kick and thrash manically. The voice in my head tells me “It’s over.”
I give up.
Washed up vagrantly on the shores of a squat. Broken plywood-covered windows staring emptily back at me. Overgrown mossy bricks whisper encouragement. “Knock” I heard monotonically.
I did.
Three dull thuds on a flaky-painted beige door and a patient silence. Curtains twitched and glared with eager eyes at my gloomy silhouette.
“What?” quizzed the creaky letterbox.
“I’m looking for a place to stay” I murmured, “Can you hook me up?”
The letterbox closed and an iron-tinged click followed. Darkness crept out of the house into the purple early-evening murk. “Go in.” said the monotone voice in my head.
I stepped into the blackness and my pupils plumped. “Follow me.” Requested a husky shadow.
I did.
A yellowing kitchen appeared at the end of the hallway, and what used to be an oven held my kryptonite, my steroid, my saving grace and my misery in one clear food bag. “Hold this” said an arm extending a spoon towards me. I did.
The beige-gold crystals fell from the bag onto the spoon and the spark of a lighter flashed at my fingertips. The crystals melted to a charred brown fluid, simmering away on the glowing fork. My lips grinned wryly in the dark. Dosage imminent.
The hand poured the vein-syrup into an idling syringe then handed me the dose. I perched shakily in the corner, leading against a wooden board, and injected my freedom.
The hot kiss in my forearm sent me into ecstatic convulsions. Pupils rolled up into my sockets I fell giddily to the floor. My panacea pumping through each and every nook of my body, numbing and soothing. Humiliated and satisfied I slumped vitriolled to the tiled floor and inspected my numbened face, which felt distorted by the hot-cold flushes of sanity creeping over my façade. I propped at my phlegmatic eyes, wandering between my shoes and my ankles in a tantalized entrapment.
The tickety-tock of a mesmeric clock echoing vacantly in the suffocating room. My knees drawn up to my chest in the shrunken capsule, toppling back and forth within my spirit-level bubble. Crucified by my every movement I dip into thoughtful contemplation, then lull into slumber.
Enthused I awake in a surgery-white kitchen. Pupils contract. Streams of sunlight burn through the holey window boards and diffuse into the grey-black room. Propped up on fat fingers I gaze meticulously at my needle-kissed arms, the dotted tracks running from wrist to elbow, interspersed only by scabs and blisters.
A hand passes me a warm syringe and I search for an unbroken patch of skin. I tell myself this is my last time. That I can stop anytime I want. That this is my own free choice. I’m not hooked, fixed, addicted – I’m just experimenting. The voice in my head tell me, “Inject”.
I do
I plunge the syringe into my arm and writhe in pleasure as the hot familiar kiss of syrup replenishes and rebuilds me, as it ebbs away at my soul and character.
Free and trapped at the same time I rub my forearms warm, heating up my scabby wrist-tracks, feeling the warm numbness in my fingertips and neck I slump back against the wall and wait to return to my distant dreams of far and yonder. The voice in my head tells me this isn’t right. My spine twitches and my arms slap manically against the wall, trying desperately to push me to my feet. I kick and thrash manically. The voice in my head tells me “It’s over.”
I give up.