The center room was dank and filthy; filled with piles of shit and used syringes, torn couches were pushed against every whole covered wall. Junkies were spread across the room, coasting on their highs. Vampires were among them, feeding on willing humans, and getting paid to do it. It was a crack-house with a stench that could be smelt from miles away. The abandoned apartment complex was a place where no person in their right mind would go. Drugs of every type, every thing that a junkie would want to get a hold of was sold cheaply in the rooms. A little flesh was used for the exchange; they bartered their bodies…their blood, for their needs.
Spike sat on one of the couches, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. It was his fifteenth bottle and he still wasn't intoxicated. Bloody hell, he screamed in his head, throwing the bottle against the wall across from him. The dirty whore flying high beside him jumped from her seat at the crash. Spike got up from the scummy couch and paced the room. What was he doing there? Has his life really sunk so low that it came to this?
He ran his fingers wildly through his vibrant blond hair, he needed to find a way out…a way to clear his head and forget everything. That was his plan these days, to score and forget everything. He needed something….anything. A crack-whore clumsily past him and he grabbed her by the throat. She tried to scream but no noise passed her severely chapped lips. He dug his hand in her pocket and took out a grimy plastic bag. It was caked in a fine white dust. Finally, he thought. He tossed her onto the couch and stormed out of the place.
He hated staying in grimy, stinky, dung infested rat-holes. It wasn't his ideal place to spend his nights…or his days. He stalked down the dark alley, free from the critter infested dump. The streets were damp from the rain earlier that day and his boots splashed through the puddles and potholes as he crossed the roads. He gripped the coke firmly in his hand; his knuckles grew whiter from the pressure. Finally he had something to take his mind off of things…off of her…off of everything that had gone wrong in his already shitty existence.
It took Spike longer than he thought to reach the dark motel situated on the outskirts of town. It didn't look or smell any different than the crack-house. He threw a hand full of bills at the desk manager and snatched the key off the table. He said nothing to the man as he past him and went up to the room he had just rented for the rest of the night and the next day. Spike wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind him. He just wanted to get this over with; he wanted to forget…forget everything.
He sat down at the little table. The chair rocked uneasily beneath him and it aggravated Spike. He didn't need the chair…he didn't need anything. He threw the baggie down on the table and grabbed the chair by its legs. Spike threw the chair angrily across the room and it smacked into the wall, breaking into pieces. He tore the top of the table off and tossed it onto the lice contaminated bed. The little white baggie bounced a little was but otherwise unharmed.
Spike crossed the room and kneeled in front of the bed, as if to pray, and took his head in his hands. His answer was in that baggie, just a line and everything will be better…for a while at least. He pulled the table-top toward him and picked up the baggie carefully. He poured a little bit of the powder on the table. The sweet white powder; it was the answer to his prayers. He searched his pockets for his tool…a cut straw. He tore through his pockets, but of course it wasn't there. Oh bloody hell, he yelled. He got up and punched the air…and the wall, leaving a nice huge hole in it. He tore through the old dresser drawers in search of something…anything. Then there they were, laying right next to each other, a razor blade and an empty pen tube. Spike snatched them up and flung himself onto his knees by the soiled bed.
He placed the pen and the blade gingerly next to the little pile of coke. Spike then took the blade and played with the cocaine for a while. He needed this, it was his saving grace. It's not like he hasn't done this before. It wasn't the worst thing he's done in a while. The lined up three lines of the mind-altering substance and looked at it. He let the sounds and the smells around him sink in for one last time before he began.
Spike picked up the pen tube and touched it to his nose. Finally his thoughts would be quelled; finally he would be able to think about something other than her….or his shitty existence. Leaning in closer to the table he snorted the first line in a second, before the drug could take effect he snorted the other two fine white lines faster than the first one. He fell backwards onto the flea infested grubby carpet. No more worrying about his shitty decisions in this shitty world of his. A half hour later Spike came down from his elating high, his head was burning and he wanted more…he needed more.
Spike took the blade again and lined up more lines, six this time. It took the rest of his coke but he lined them all up and snorted them, one after the other, by means of his inhuman speed. With a crooked smile pasted on his face he watched the sun rise through the moth eaten curtains from the confines of his grubby motel room.
His high passed quicker than he wanted and his head began to throb again. Spike wasn't done, he wanted more, and he wanted to forget everything forever. But he knew that was never going to happen. He was immortal and his curse was to live in this shit hole with these terrible thoughts and fucked-up memories. Maybe he should just stake himself right now, get it over with so he wouldn't have to die by someone else's hand. But in this place, this crappy place no one should ever be, did he really want to end his everlasting life here? His life was really not worth living anymore, he couldn't cause pain or misery anymore, and he can't kill. He used to live for the hunt but now he had to live on pig's blood and what the butcher threw out.
He crossed the room, faltering slightly he grabbed onto the door frame for support. Spike took his time going into the filthy bathroom. It looked like the place hadn't been cleaned since it was built. Spike felt his stomach convulse, he knew that the contents would soon show. Clenching his side, he fell over the toilet and vomited. This was how he spent his days. When he finished he pulled himself toward the sink and ran the water. It was chunky and brown; roaches scurried out of the faucet and crawled up the wall into the crack in the ceiling. Once the water ran clean Spike cleaned out his mouth and rinsed off his face. He turned his bloodshot eyes toward the mirror, he knew he wouldn't see anything there but for once he wished he did. He knew he looked horrid but he wanted to see how he changed over the years. Spike wanted to see what he looked like, he could barely remember…but wasn't that what he wanted? To forget?
He punched the mirror, sending a spider web of cracks throughout it. Just one more thing to put on his list of things he had broken that night…or morning…or whatever, day and night really had no relevance to him now. He retracted his hand from the broken mirror, it was bleeding, and shards of glass embedded his fist. Oh bollocks, he growled. Why did this have to happen to him? It really wasn't a big problem, he removed the glass from his hand and only seconds later this hand was mended. But still, self-rejuvenation didn't heal all of his scars…not all of the emotional ones at least.
Spike made his way slowly to the bed and flipped the table top quickly off of it. He sat down and shed his coat. He rolled over onto his side, pulled the gross blanket over his head and passed out from the exhaustion. Bugger, he thought to himself. He needed to get out of there, but where would he go at this time of day, not to another crack-house under cover of blanket to hide him from the suns harmful rays. He knew he needed help but did he want it? Who could…or would help him? He was straight evil, even though it was impossible for him to hurt living beings; he was still a killer, even though he couldn't kill. He closed his eyes tightly trying to clear his mind and get some rest. It's not like it would help, just because you can't see the problems doesn't mean they aren't there. Spike curled up into a ball and pulled the blankets around him tighter; maybe he should just walk out into the sun light. Then he wouldn't ever have to see her again…let alone think about her.
It was her fault he was in this mess anyway. I'm not underneath her, he thought. What makes her think she's better than me anyway? So what if she's human that doesn't mean a bloody thing. I could make her happy, if she would just give it a chance. He rolled over on his back and looked at the water-spotted ceiling; I need to get out of here. He wished that he had a clock, someway of telling time. He knew it was daylight from looking out the window and that would hinder any progress that he would have wanted to make. He just had to stay put until the sun set. He closed his eyes again and rolled over; he cleared his head of anything that was unpleasant at the moment, which was everything, and tried to get some sort of rest.