Luke Haley, May 25th -
The first razor sharp pricks of sunlight jab at Luke's benign eyes, lifting him from the deepest abyss' of the subconscious and dropping him down on the cold, dusty cement of his orcish un-moving observer. Sounds consisting of the skeet of rubber on asphalt, a coughing passerby and the deep, woozy throbbing in his ears told Luke he'd been out for a while, the wind whipped rain having pooled around his clean shaven skull. Making the decision that the comfort of his home is better than his current abode, Luke shifts his weight to the right, moving to stand up. As he does so, a searing pain slithers of his leg, courtesy of a poorly placed needle, a much regretted addition to the list of welts, bruises and terrible strains that decorate his figure. Pain doesn't matter to Haley though, not when the cure was a 5 block walk away, not when you're living day to day where shooting up is like drinking water.
It wasn't as much for the chemical thrill as it was for a cop-out peace of mind that Luke Haley raced home for, pounding down the street in his worn Vans, torn clothes catching gusts of wind as they pound him back, a wall in the way of the ultimate salvation. As he neared the peeling red door of his shambled apartment, Luke could already see himself tracing through the house, finding the all too familiar apparatus. What was left of his blow in the butter jar under the orange juice and eggs, a syringe or two inside the alarm clock that always read 2:34, rubber cleverly concealed as yoga equipment hanging by the door, and a collection of light-bulbs, lighters, straws and dollar bills by a colorful assortment of your basic pharmaceuticals. Canisters barbiturates, a rare yet tongue moistening find, Valium, and Atarax for the initial anxiety of the coke high, a handful of Robitussin to keep him from doing anything too stupid, some Flatliners to curve the more intense effects of the blow, and a baggie of Talacen, a low-key opiate to smooth the landing into a more euphoric state.
The bathroom door bursts open, it's silent prisoner dropping the contents of his hands on the counter. He flicks the tap on, and as water begins to flow from the rusted nozzle, bruised and shaking hands laying out the various bright pills in a neat line. Now for the hard part, choosing the point of entry. Luke opts to flip a die, 1 & 4, the lightbulb, 2 & 5, the spoon n' lighter, 3 & 6, straight up with a single bill. He tosses the worn piece of wood, and it arks, twisting the fate of his next 20 minutes again and again and again, smashing to the counter with a clamber of tiles on die.
6....6....6....
Wasting no time to contemplate the roll, Haley busts out a long, thin line, tracing the image of a smile, something he hadn't seen in quite some time. He then rolls the dollar tight, leaning down into the pit of euphoria, kick starting a blazing frenzy of line after line, followed by pill after pill, slowly engulfing the pain of his weak body and mind, making him feel normal once again. Not high, just normal.
Who were the others to judge him? Who were they to laugh when they're drowning in it too?
No excuses.
OOC: A quick little one. Thought I'd keep it going, but I'm gonna drop this story after this post most likely, there's just too many addict rp's going around, gonna look into something else.
