A/N: This is sort of trippy. That was my goal, rather, so hopefully it's sort of trippy.
Don't worry guys, there's no slash in this chapter, so if you just want to read about a drug addict, this chapter can probably stand alone.
Warnings: Drug abuse by minors, language.
He was fourteen. He'd had considerable freedom. He had access. Sometimes he had money. He didn't hang around the most respectable people. He wanted to fit in. Under such circumstances, it truly did seem inevitable. In fact, the only surprise was that no one had noticed sooner, that he was allowed to get to this point, that no one suspected anything was wrong with their strong leader.
And here he was, hunched in the corner of a dirty bathroom stall, located in the back of a run down club he surely wasn't allowed anywhere near. Here he sat, fingers trembling, dirt and grime and who knows what else staining his ratty jeans. How had he gotten here? How did the brave, the strong, the invincible, the undeniable leader, Matt Freeman wind up in a place where the only people around were addicts? Sex addicts, drug addicts - even party addicts, who just couldn't resist the allure of being surrounded by bodies, all dancing, sweating, pushing, holding – they all end up here, or in a place similar to here. So why was Matt here? What had he done?
The answer was simple, too simple for any of them to accept. But they could deny it all they like, the truth would still hold. What they couldn't accept, wouldn't accept, refused to accept, it was all true. Why Matt was there, why didn't he leave, why, why, why…
Matt was one of them.
An addict.
Their fearless leader shuddered from the withdrawal. So long, too long, since he had last used. He couldn't stand this feeling of depression, of spiraling despair that took control of him when he was clean. His body felt delayed, it should react faster, he should be able to hear the blood rushing through his head and his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to be constantly awake, completely aware of everything around him, even if it wasn't real.
And it was that same desire, his body's craving for it, his dependence that led him here tonight. Shaking with anticipation and an almost-conscious feeling of dread, he almost broke the cap trying to unscrew it from the jar. The pills spilled out into his unsteady palm, and almost immediately he knocked some of them into the disgusting, moldy bathroom floor. He tried steadying himself and carefully picked the pills up, one at a time. Returning all to the bottle except two, he closed his eyes and breathily exhaled though his mouth. A wry smile tugged at the edge if his mouth. He hadn't even taken the drug yet, and he already sounded high.
Without further ado, he tilted his head back, with his eyes still twisted shut, and dropped one pill in, swallowing it dry. He opened his eyes a slit, waiting for the drug to kick in, the familiar rush of his body speeding up. Impatient, he examined the second pill. With less hesitation than before, he swallowed it whole.
The effects were marvelous. He felt better than he had in days. He shoved the bottle back into his pocket and barely noticed the lack of shaking. He was wide awake now, ready to move, ready to dance, ready to make something happen. He made his way back into the club, hyper tuned to all of the flashing lights and noises around him. No one gave him a second glance as he walked onto the dance floor, eyes darting back and forth, pupils dilated, sweating before he even got there. The boy could easily pass for seventeen, eighteen, and age didn't matter here anyway. People only came here for one reason, and Matt obviously had similar motives.
He reached the crowd, and almost immediately became part of the pulsing throng. The music pounded into his head, an upbeat pop song that sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, at least certainly not in this condition. The club was more crowded than he had expected, although now he wasn't sure how many people he was expecting to be here. People pressed in on him from all sides, all unsteady and unaware or ecstatic and energetic. Matt was one of the latter, his body moving in sync with the others around him. Any notion of personal space had been abandoned as soon as he entered the club, and he came in contact with several people besides the ones surrounding him. A sly look, then a roaming hand on his lower back, or a quick slap to the ass, or hair tickling his neck, and Matt was hypersensitive to all of it. Every touch left literal tingles in the area of contact and he couldn't suppress shivers.
He was hot. Oh so hot. Sweat poured down his face and soaked the back of his T-shirt. His breathing was becoming irregular, and he practically felt his lungs pumping wildly in his chest. Or maybe that was his heart, trying to keep him alive, beating, pumping, throbbing way too fast. If he had more control, he may have been concerned, worried, perhaps, that his heart should slow time, take its time, because how could he ever love like this? In this condition, he may have wondered, how could he ever feel anything accurately? But he wasn't in his right mind, and all he thought about was his high. Oh how nice it was to finally be aware, awake, alive again. So long; how long? Too long.
He swung himself into a dense crowd to his right, with a raspy, whooping laugh. He collided with the bodies, more contact, a touch, more sweat. His laugh quickly turned into a raspy cough, and his head spun and vision blurred. He froze and swayed unsteadily for a moment, but this was nothing unusual here and the club continued around him as if nothing was wrong. The haze passed and he saw with renewed clarity, but something was off.
He frowned, senses alert, every hair on his body standing on end. What was off? What was wrong? Why couldn't he relax? Then he saw them. A whole gang of them, as hideously deformed as ever, lurking around in the crowd. Now that Matt recognized them, he could have slapped himself for not seeing them sooner, even in this off state.
"Old Ones," he whispered, the sound of his voice foreign and dry. No one around him paid him any attention, but the Old Ones stared at him immediately as if he had called for them. They advanced, some grinning terribly, with rotted yellow teeth and grotesque faces.
"No," Matt practically whimpered, backing away into the crowd, stumbling, aware that he couldn't escape. He had no idea what to do. Escape, his mind cried; fight, his mind cried! His reactions bubbled over each other, his brain couldn't process, he had no ability to even begin to formulate a plan. He had no chance, though, for the Old Ones had him surrounded. Fight. He had to fight.
There was no choice left; he had to protect the people in the club, who only moments ago had been pressed up dancing against him, for they were too high to even notice the Old Ones. He had to warn them. Escape. Fight. Warn. Help.
"Run away!" Matt screamed, although his raspy voice and the loud music drowned it all out. "They're here!" He wobbled on his feet. He could see almost all of them, and those he couldn't see he could sense. He needed to fight, keep them away from everyone. A weapon. The first thing he grabbed. Was it a beer bottle? Maybe. It was heavy, heavy enough to do damage. He swung it at the first Old One he saw, only a few steps away from him, possibly preparing to go in for the kill. The bottle smashed against its head and it howled and crumpled to the ground.
Matt's was breathing heavily now, intensely enough to notice. He was ready, more ready than he's ever been. He charged another Old One, which was strangely effective as it was knocked backwards. His clear vision blurred again and he attacked blindly, swinging fists and kicking determined to bring down as many as he could. Everyone around him was an Old One and had stopped ignoring him. Some stared, others started surrounding him. Suffocating, surrounded, bodies pressed against him. Their sweaty bodies pressed against him…
He started attacking more viciously now, and managed to knock a few away, but more came and these were more aggressive. They pinned him arms to his side, then there was haze, and confusion, and then he was on the ground, held down by two Old Ones as they cackled madly. He struggled uselessly, he was too weak, pathetic, worthless. Worthless, pathetic, weak, useless. He felt something against his head, a harsh pain that spread across his entire body. He started to scream but it faded out as he slumped into unconsciousness.
A/N: I'm obsessed with drugs. I like knowing stuff about them, and I know some of this stuff is off, but it was literally written in the middle of the night while I had no caffeine, so spare me. This turned out so much differently than I had planned. It was supposed to be a short, drabble-length, slightly dark Richard/Matt piece, but then this happened… Speaking of Richard/Matt, this might become slash. Not much in the next chapter, since it will be really short, but chapter three maybe.
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