Donnie rummaged through the dresser drawers one by one. It was in there - it had to be. The small bedroom was in a state of chaos that mirrored Donnie's own mental state. The mattress lay flipped over on the floor, the side table no longer supported the lamp and the phone; both lay on the floor, the dial tone droning away and the lamp light being cast at an odd angle through the room due to it's new position on the floor.
Sweat beaded on his freckled forehead and his damp, shaggy, dirty-blonde hair clung to it and the back of his neck. His blue eyes were bloodshot and his eyes were red and puffy. He felt sick to his stomach now, both from the withdraw and from the anxiety and stress that not being able to find his own stash was causing him.
Finally.
Reaching under the dresser his long fingers found a small box. He pulled it out in a split second and threw open the lid. The slender fingers wrapped around the syringe and the small vial that lay beside it.
Within a few minutes Donnie was back to normal.