w (heir) wrote in repose, @ 2018-05-29 02:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, *news, damian wainright |
Narrative: Damian W & News: Jersey
Who: Damian Wainright
What: narrative
Where: Jersey
When: after this
Warnings/Rating: drugs, angst, some leering, swears
Damian lasted twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours of calling, of texting, of everything, and without an answer. He did not know where Misha was. He did not know if something had happened to the boy, but he knew he, Misha, could not die. He, Misha, could not hurt others, however, but what if he, Misha, had been taken? Perhaps Leena's demons had taken him. Worse, perhaps his actions, done only as Damian had asked for them, had caught the attention of Heaven, and what if he had been poached there? Twenty-four hours, and Damian wondered if he would ever see his fiancé again. This thought, once it came, was crippling. To say he was devastated at the mere notion would be to understate. He could not breathe because of it. It was his fault, he had done this, and Misha was in the nothingness now that he hated, screaming. He would go mad, truly so, and it was because of what Damian had asked.—Holed up in his old room, he used what he had on hand. Morphine as an injectable. He was careful about his intake. He was not stupid. He knew he could easily overdose. But, he did not cut himself off as he used to. This was not maintenance and it was not simply seeking to control emotions. It was obliteration. 30 milligrams a day was too paltry. He would hardly be high. And, as upset as he was, he wanted nothing more than to be high. His notion was to dose himself 30 milligrams, every eight hours when it would have run its course, and go from there. He began with the syringe, which hit much quicker than insufflation ever had, and Damian decided he liked it much, much better. He had to find more. Thirty-six hours. He had run out of morphine. It was not as if he had packed much. In truth, he had not packed any. It was simply in the first aid kit. He had only discovered it upon looking through the thing in the jet. But, it was gone now. His calm was beginning to disintegrate. He had been painting using supplies he had left in his room. His painting was blue-hued blackness, it was dark matter caught on flypaper, it was nothing. He set it on fire. Forty hours, and Damian was beginning to think he would prefer to be dead. It was a stark thought, cold, but flinching. It was weak and he knew this. He turned from it. Misha, a golden bubble of hope told him as it pressed into his chest, crushing against his heart, might return. This, he felt, was weaker. Hope. Hope was weak. Hope was reaching without grasping. Damian had found an old stash of pills in his room after turning the place inside out, but the high came on slow, it seemed. It curved in without euphoria. It eked and settled. Damian spent the next five hours polishing his katana in a corrupted state of zen. After tending to Leena, and this now seventy-three hours in, he ended up was a dingy apartment. It was not horrible. The bed was made, but the ceiling was water stained. The bedroom contained a man he had been referred to. The man wore a tank top that had, in all probability, once been white, but was now a dirty dishwater gray, sweat stained and loose on thin, hunched frame. He had bags beneath his eyes that were the color of the destroyed painting. One eyelid was daubed with eye shadow, his lips were strangely dark. He wore sweatpants with a butterfly pattern and a cardigan-type item that was leopard print. He was of an indeterminate age, white, and he had his wares in a suitcase upon the bed. He put in the combination lock and opened the case. He made his pitch. Everything was clean, straight from the pharma's assembly lines, nothing generic and nothing cut. Clean as nun's cunt. He watched Damian as the younger man inspected the pills and all such, but his expression flatlined when Damian said he wanted the morphine and all of it. There were three reasons someone might ask for all of his stash, he said, sitting in the chair near the bed, and he told Damian to take off his shirt. Damian obliged, his eyes on the bag of pills in the man's fist. The reasons were having one's nose up some cop's ass—pants too. He gestured. Take them off. Now. Damian insisted he had just had a pat down. Take off the fucking pants. Fine. The second reason was someone was trying to resell in his market. But, he didn't think Damian was that stupid and he didn't think Damian had a death wish. He told Damian to turn. He did so, showing he did not had a wire on him. The dealer stood. He came close. Damian lifted his chin to stare at him, pants around his ankles. Which brought him to three. "Life that unbearable, baby?" He asked. Damian said nothing. He stared. The dealer acted like he was offering the bag, but he snatched it back when Damian reached for it. "Cute little boy like you. The pleasure I could give you." He dangled the bag of pills again, chalky and blue, but this time he let Damian take them. "More's the pity." Eighty hours. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Damian counted them out. He had found someone else, after acquiring the pills, who had liquid morphine. He was injecting. The pills were a safeguard, a nuclear option, and he kept them close. In the meantime, he chased one high to the next, tightrope walking over a rabid ocean of his worst fears. Still, that bubble of hope persisted and he felt it now, there, by his heart, pressing against the chambers. Fortunately, he was too high to hate it. |