InsaneJournal

Who: Sam
What: Narrative: Falling off the wagon
Where: Home → Some guy's place
When: After this post
Warnings/Rating: Drugs

Sam didn't make it to Palace Station.

The lawyer freaked her out, and the prospect of the bus suddenly seemed unbelievably fucking daunting. So, what if the cops said the Murphys were ok? What if they filled out the report, and if the cops denied it or whatever? That meant Chloe and Alexander could move in across the street, yeah? It meant they could do what the fuck ever, and Sam just imagined them at their windows with guns. They could kill everyone, and the cops couldn't do shit. Wouldn't do shit. And maybe that was an exaggeration, but it didn't feel like one. They'd done all sorts of shit, hadn't they? And no one had done a fucking thing about it. They were still sitting there, waiting for more hitwomen with blonde fucking hair and--

Wait. How the fuck did she remember--

She didn't--

(She turned, and she saw a glint of blond, and what the fuck was that sound? Had someone been hurt? What happened? And people were fucking screaming, and was it raining? She touched her hand to her ear, where she could still hear ringing, and was that blood?)

Sam had no fucking clue how she'd ended up on her knees in the bedroom, but that's where she was, sweat dotting her brow and her hands shaking like they were made of fucking jello or something. And there was panic. Sheer fucking unadulterated panic at the memory that hadn't made its way into her consciousness until just then. Her ears still rung, and she remembered how that blood had felt on her fingers. A pill. She needed a fucking pill, yeah? She needed a pill. That was all. A pill would make everything better.

She took a cab, even though she didn't have cash for the fare. She didn't fucking care, and she gave an address to an old apartment complex in Fremont, one she remembered from her days with Clarissa--

Not Clarissa--

(There was a party, the music loud and people snorting lines off the back of toilets. She was selling, baggies in the pockets of her jeans and needles in her jacket. She glanced at her watch, checking the time, because she didn't want Neil to catch on to what she was doing.)

And that memory wasn't as bad as the one before. Ok, so she'd been dealing. Why? She'd given that shit up, hadn't she? But, no, Chloe made them poor or whatever. Fucking Chloe. Everything came back to fucking Chloe.

The cab stopped, and the driver yelled for her to come back, but she didn't stop until she was inside.

The guy that opened the door to the apartment was vaguely familiar. He chuckled, and he paid the cab, and he had a needle waiting. Payment, he said, could always wait, and he tucked her blonde-again hair behind one ear.

Yeah, ok, just one hit. No one needed to know. Shane could cover for her, yeah? Shane would do it.