Title: Fallen
Author: GriffinWolf
Beta: thanks to Somebody's Dark Angel
Rating: MA15+ (Strong drug use + references)
Summary: She used to lead drug busts. Now she feared them. Oneshot.
Her hand was trembling; quivering so badly she couldn't keep her fingers closed and, before she'd even brought it up, the needle was dropping to the ground. Her face tightened in pain, and there was a small explosion, as the pent up anguish fought its way to the surface. Angry, lonely tears slipped down her cheeks, and her entire body shook with the force of the sobs.
She rolled over, pressing her face into the soft cushion that served as a pillow, and screamed. Wave after wave of emotion rolled through her, drowning her, until she could no longer stand it. Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she screamed again, her voice a long, thin wail of primeval terror and pain.
A shout.
The walls were thin. But she had no neighbours, and no-one walking past her digs would care or wonder at her noise.
She rolled over, falling off the expanded lounge, and reached for the needle. Inhaling sharply, she bit her lip, forcing her hands to steady themselves.
Another.
The vein was dark blue against the pale skin of her arm, and her nerves were strung too tightly for her to feel the pinch. It took another second for her to push down, but once she did it took only moments for her heartbeat to increase, and then slow... and then, then came sweet relief.
Within minutes, her entire body was numb. Her vision blurred, and the fiery pain that usually raged within her chest flickered and died. Each breath was an effort, but she didn't – couldn't – notice. So easy. So calm.
Her ribs were sticking up through her threadbare shirt. Her face was grey, and the skin around her sunken eyes was dark. She could feel her tongue swelling, sticking to the roof of her dry mouth, and her blood pressure dropping.
Forcing herself off the ground, she collapsed back onto the lounge, her fingers idly emptying a sachet of blue liquid into a fresh needle. It needed to be done now, in preparation, while she was steady enough to not drop either.
The bliss was ebbing away, so quickly; too quickly. Her muscles began to ache, and before long the shaking had started again. The dim light above her seemed to flare, and she shrunk back from the brightness, turning her head to shield her bloodshot eyes.
A gunshot.
Again. Gunshots. Pain, in her chest and side. Her head tipped back and she screamed again…or she tried to. No noise came from her open mouth. Another sob, and then the pain in her chest began to burn again.
Desperate, she fumbled for the needle she had just repleted, and tightened the strap around her arm. Two pains haunted her.
Pain.
One physical, a permanent reminder of the mistakes she'd made. The other was deeper, stronger, more cutting. Her fault. Blind to the clues slapping her in the face. Her mistake. She'd made the wrong calls, and suffered for it. But not her life. It would have been too quick, too easy, to simply die for it. She should have died.
Instead, she had to carry the burden of three young lives. The hospital had given her drugs – nice, legal, 'safe' drugs – for the injury. But they weren't strong enough to dull the sharp knife of agony that twisted whenever she remembered what had happened.
Again. With shocking speed, she'd opened another sachet, feeling the quivers beginning to return. She'd been to her supplier yesterday, and this stash needed to last, but she knew it wouldn't. It never did. She didn't have the money to get more, either. The blessing of an old annuity was all that kept her alive.
The numbness entered her body again, and slowly the shaking stopped.
Oh, shit, was that too much? Fuck. Fuck. Never mind.
Once, she'd led drug busts. Now, she feared them.
Her fingers scrambled for another sachet. She was in deep, so deep beneath a warm, quiet wall, floating in rapture. She couldn't find it. She'd been sure there was another. So sure.
Another silent tear trickled sideways, towards her ear. She blinked, wondering why the lounge was suddenly so hard. The floor. She was on the floor, lying on her back, head tipped slightly to one side.
There wasn't enough. Nothing was strong enough to dull the pain that was rearing up to engulf her. Not that there was much left.
Just a hollow shell.
Hollow point.
Those who hadn't been completely horrified by the depth and stupidity of her mistake – her sequence of foolish, avoidable mistakes – had tried to help her. At first in small ways; giving her a lift to the hospital when she needed a scan or stitches removed. Then, they'd be looking out for her, trying to help her keep her house and her job, and ultimately failing. Finally, it had gone to money, hesitant loans at first, then the small payments she promised she would use to get clean.
Then, it had all stopped. An attempt at kindness, forcing her to live for herself. So little money. She couldn't give up her one ticket to heaven, and instead cut off the booze and half the food.
The shivering began again, but she couldn't lift herself off the floor or even raise her head. Her chest tightened, and pain shot through her again. Why couldn't it fucking stop, leave her be for a single night?
She moaned. Fallen from grace.
Falling.
Hitting the deck.
Being swallowed by comforting blackness. She felt herself losing consciousness, and almost wept again, this time with relief.
Darkness reigned, and suddenly she realised she was losing more than that. She was glad, so very glad.
The woman she was back then would not have appreciated the irony. "They found him in his car, dead, still with the needle in his arm."
A curse ran through her mind, and with the last of her energy, she ripped the needle from her swollen vein, and threw it, hard against the wall. It shattered, and fell down, as if in slow motion, making only the softest thud against the filthy carpet.