The street clock read 3:09 AM. The lights were dimly lighting the streets but the lights in the alleyway flickered like crazy, many moths confusingly flying head first into the flickering bulbs and then flapping it's crooked wings to fly into a more sturdy light source.
The dumpsters around in the alleyway were large, box shaped containers covered in sewage sludge and a deep blue color, like that somehow makes them more appealing for people to leave their homes and dump their waste into them.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The noise of a leak on the underside of the dumpster was the only noise in the alley way besides the cars speeding by every once in a while, the occasional shouts, a gunshot every half hour, and police sirens in the far off distance. The noise, to any other person, would be constantly annoying and irritating. Drip. Drip. Drip.
But not to her. She hardly even noticed the noise from her place on the ground, her hands trembling, and her skin feeling coarse and like there was something crawling underneath it. With everything she was currently feeling, the noise was nothing.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Her fingers shook violently as she gripped the leather belt in her hands, wrapping it tightly around her arm and pulling on it as much as she could. Her hands shook like a leaf and she stopped her motion, shook them out in the air, and gripped the belt again. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Slowly, the itching stopped around her arm and she reached down to grasp the medical device that rested on her thigh. The pointy needle glinted in the moonlight and she held out her arm, pushing down on the plunger and seeing the small amount of yellow liquid oozing from the needle. Drip. Drip. Drip.
A hiccup bubbled from her throat as she pressed the needle against her muscle on her bicep and slowly pushed the needle in where the rest of the track scars were so badly on display as her arm began to change colors. A few tears slipped passed her eyes and splattered into the puddle next to her.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Minutes went by, but only a few. She looked at the clock again, her vision fuzzy. 3:12 AM.
It was then that she felt a sudden rush of pleasure flood through her body and she let out a quick sigh of relief, removing the syringe and tossing it over her shoulder into the high up dumpster and loosening the belt from her arm. And by then, she didn't even hear the noise.
Drip. Drip. Drip. It faded away like the itching. Like her fear. Like her pain. It was completely gone from her sights, just like the flickering lights on the wall.
"This is the last time..." She always told herself this. Every. Other. Damn. Day. Every other day she found herself here. Her hands biting into that belt, her fingers shaking like she has Parkinson's disease, her skin crawling like there are ants living under her flesh, her eyes bulging from her sickly, hollowed skull like they could fall out if she looked up.
She always believes this will be the last time. That she will finally see a doctor. That she can afford her methadone. But damn it, it never ends up that way. The sweet, sweet drug that calls her name is more precious to her than the $300 that she could be spending to get clean.
It started with alcohol; the dark, strong liquor that made her dizzy and giggle every night after a hard day at work. But soon, everybody told her that she smelled like a dumpster fire; that she looked green around the gills when she would show up for her daily shift in the kitchens. So she looked for something better; something... Longer lasting than a sour drink that left her breath smelling like rotting meat.
She found that Marijuana was very easy to come by in her apartment complex. All those nights of complaining about the rank smelling teens in the lobby were far behind her. She joined them on the streets, accepting the roach when it was passed to her. It was thicker than a cigarette, but far less unappetizing, considering it was just a medical plant and not dried out tobacco, mixed with dangerous chemicals, like the pheromones put into bug spray.
Weed was a comforting change... But her clothes soon reeked. And her eyes became bloodshot. She asked the teens on the sidewalk how to make it stronger for her... They suggested a different type of weed, which didn't help. But soon, one suggested heroin.
"That ain't like a flu shot, honey," The man holding a bag halfway up his sleeve held out his hand for the crisp, hard $50 in her pale, pink painted nailed hand. "This is strong, hardcore shit you're messin' with."
"Are you a drug dealer or a counselor? Give me the damn needles or you don't get my money."
The gruff bearded man rolled his eyes and ripped the bill from her hand before handing over the brown, paper bag. She accepted it and immediately went back to her apartment, hiding the baggie in her own sleeve as she pressed the key into her doorknob and twisted it to the left.
Once she was in, there was no getting out.
The first dose was so sweet... It felt familiar to the afterglow of a mind-shattering orgasm, which she has only had a real handful of in her life. It felt like a floating, glowing feeling and she loved it. Never wanted to live without it again. She thought it would last for so long... But by the nest morning, realization came crashing down on her.
Her skin felt dry and itchy. Her mouth was dry, begging for water. Her muscles ached and screamed as she attempted to do the simplest of tasks. It was almost like the feeling she felt the night before was a complete lie.
So, she did it again. And again. And again. Until a bundle of scars collected on her arm and at her wrists. Her coworkers noticed. They noticed how her hands were lax on the whisk, how she would drop full trays of baked goods and then start snorting afterwards. They noticed how she spent many extra minutes in the bathroom before her break and well after it was over. And when she went in, she looked wide eyed and squirrely. But when she left, she looked dazed, happy, and even disturbingly pleased.
Nobody was happy when they found her in the back of the meat-locker with a syringe plunged deep into her vein and her eyes rolling back like she was attempting to dislodge them from her skull.
She was hauled out by the owner, tossed into the back of the alley and her belongings were thrown at the back of her head. She was too doped out of her brains to realize that she had just been fired and threatened to be arrested if she returned. She was laying in a puddle, laughing like an idiot as her ribs had been bruised by the toss. Scrapes littered her cheeks as she rolled over and stared up at the sky, the twinkling stars seeming so close that if she reached out, she could keep one in her pocket forever.
So here she was. Alone. In a backwards alley, and wishing she knew better but not willing to give up the honey gold liquid any time soon. Even if she knew she said it was the last time, she knew in her heart that she never wanted to live without this high.
She peered up at the clock: 3:21 AM.
Drip. Drip Drip.
"What the fuck?" It was like that noise was very new to her. Her eyes bugged and she reached for a bent, out of shape pipe, and held it above her head, her weak arms no longer trembling but her face becoming quickly matted with sweat.
She jumped to her feet, stumbling a bit as if she was pushed by an unknown force, and quickly spun around, swinging the pipe wildly, hoping to strike something that obviously was not there. The squeaks of rats and the shifting of trash in the dumpsters had her very much on edge. She let out a loud shout of fear.
"Hey! Heeey!" She screamed desperately to attempt to frighten off her invisible assailant. It was like, something in the back of her mind itched, like someone was out to get her. So she screamed, swung the pipe, and hoped it would scare off the person. Her muscles screamed as she eventually let loose the pipe and it flew from her grasp, clattering to the stone and rolling away from her.
"Fuck this!" She ran from the back alley and stumbled into the streets, her feet almost forgetting how to be feet as she jerked herself towards the road. Many people watched her; like she was some zombie that had just crawled from a 200 year old grave and her skin was rotting off.
A giggle rumbled from her throat as little prickles raced up her spine and she stumbled, nearly tripping over the manhole cover. It felt like the world was spinning and she was a giggling mess, her eyes clouding over a little bit.
"Fuck me," She muttered a little as she rubbed her arm that was becoming slightly sore. But as she rubbed her arm, she was completely oblivious to her current position... In the middle of the fucking road.
Her feet scuffed over the fading yellow lines as she wiggled herself into limping off, following a path like it was an autopilot command. She was tired. Her head felt heavy. And she had to take a bad shit. But she kept walking down the street.
It wasn't long till she found herself pushing the gas station door open. She shoved her petite hands into the chest of a random patron in the station and he spewed curse words at her. She didn't care. She stumbled into the bathroom, barely locking the door in time before her jeans hit the floor and she settled onto the toilet seat.
She spent about 20 minutes in there before a flush could be heard and she rinsed her hands in the sink, scrubbing like a weak, tiny child who didn't understand why they needed to use soap when washing their hands. It took her 4 whole minutes to be satisfied with the lack of soap. She wiped them down the front of her shirt, creating wet lines down her chest and stomach as she stumbled out of the building, slamming her knee into the newspaper dispenser and swearing louder than anybody has heard that night.
But the pain vanished almost as soon as it became known. So she limped away into the dark, her leg now feeling as heavy as her skull.
Strutting back into the middle of the road, finding that following the solid yellow lines make it easier to walk. Her fingers curled into her palms, her arms flexing a little and her veins bulging from her skin, she spun around in a circle, swinging her fist at the air to attempt to hit someone she thought could be following her. But was only met with open air.
"Y-Yeah, you better run!" She snarled into the nothingness as she stopped and saw her untied shoe. Kneeling down a little, she fumbled with the ties a little and crossed her fingers slightly, struggling with the knot and the bow before finally giving up and pulling them as tight as possible, tucking them into the side of her shoes.
So she continued on, the shoe now slipping off her heel, and her stomach now empty.
As she limped down the streets, there was a very unfamiliar rumbling down from behind her. She let out an ungodly shout of anger and her hands went for a nearby dumpster lid. It was heavy, metallic, and could very well hurt any human if hit hard enough with it. She held it tight like a large Frisbee, ready to strike on something that could be hunting her.
But soon, the bright lights of a large, speedy vehicle was coming for her. She was ignorant to the danger; absolutely oblivious to the risk. So she began swinging it like a heavy sword, determined to hurt the large barreling vehicle coming for her at an alarmingly fast pace.
But the outcome was not what she believed it was. When the large piece of machinery hit her, she went flying across the pavement and sliding over the gravelly streets. Her arm snapped on impact, her brain rattled in her skull, and her insides felt like a pile of mush. When her head hit the ground, she was out cold. It was almost a ghost pain to her.
But she remembers waking up in arms... Big, strong, solid arms. It smelled bad, worse than the vomiting she would do almost every few days in the morning like a ritual. Her whole body hurt and her high was gone. The itching had returned and her heart started clenching in her chest.
Faint, soft voices could be heard but she seemed to be fading out once again, realizing that if she slept, maybe she could escape the drop. Maybe... Just maybe... She could dream, like she used to years ago.
The last thing she could hear, was the very familiar sound of her blood hitting the water below her body wherever she was being held... Drip. Drip. Drip.