A/N - Yeah. Not much to say, other than my nose is hurting in sympathy. Five vic tens is a LOT of powder to snort down.
It's the back end of a blue lighter, and a DVD case. A receipt, and the self satisfying crunch as the lighter drives down hard against it. It's the crinkle of a dollar bill as it rolls into a tight spiral, and The sound of a gentle sniff. The sound of rocks hitting the plastic of the case once again, as they're not finely ground enough to coat the sinus passages.
It's watering eyes as it burns the top of his nose, and a single tear leaking free, hastily brushed away. It's a tilt of a head back against the chair, so that what isn't absorbed by the mucous membranes in the nasal cavities can drip down the throat, to be processed by the stomach and work it's way through the bloodstream at a slower rate. It's the bitter taste in the back of his throat, as what's slowly dripping down it hits the back of his tongue.
It's relaxing back, not because he can feel it yet, but because he knows it's coming. It's the tap tap rap of a credit card, shoving the off-white powder back into place, pressing down against it to flatten out the larger bits into a fine powder. Neatly adjusting it into little lines that are easier to inhale. It's an almost greedy slurp as a tongue flicks out, removing the excess powder that sticks to the card.
It's a pause before the head dips down, dollar bill stuck in nose yet again, small smile starting to spread. It's the same motion repeated, once, twice, thrice, before a finger ducks into a mouth, and rubs against the case, wiping up whatever is left behind. Its the bitter enjoyment of the bitter powder, he's accustomed to the taste, and to him it's heaven. Not because it's an enjoyable stimuli, but it's a reminder of what's to come. There is no pleasure without pain.
It's hefting the scarred right leg onto the couch, and feeling the first bits of warmth starting to spread through his body. It's a grin spreading as the warmth does, enjoying the feeling. It's a grimace at the ave of nasuea, but he's used to it, and battles it away with strength of will, ignoring it in favor of the pleasure. It's one hand idly playing with the remote, before settling on, ironically, Trainspotting.
It doesn't matter much though what's on, because in a few minutes, he's not actually going to be watching the television. Ewan McGregor diving through a toilet is just a background noise, as his head tips further back. It's eyes gently closing, and fingers loosening around the remote. It's conscious thought slowly drifting to a halt, and the brain processing only pleasure instead.
It's the chemical reactions in the brain-hydrocodone slowly flooding the opiate receptors, particularly the mu-receptors, and producing the same feelings that natural endorphins do. It's eighteen carbons, twenty-one hydrogens, and three nitrates a molecule, slowly flooding through him. There were trillions of these molecules. Sixteen thousandths of a mole, but he was never good with stoichiometry to figure out the exact amount of molecules. Besides, he didn't care about how many molecules there were, just that there were currently fifty milligrams of bliss working their way through his body, each and every single powdery flake bringing something good to him.
It's breathing that slows into a steady rhythm, below what should be normal, but enough to keep carrying life-giving oxygen through his body. It's a floating sensation, and a pure bliss. It's the odd dreams that come only from the drugs, where everything bad is ignored, and the only thing around him is good. It's the emotions of pain-both physical and emotional, blunted.
Even when the drugs start to wear off, there's a lingering feeling that remains, which is why he does this. He needs them for the physical pain, to combat the ever lasting ache and burn of nerve cells hitting a dead end, and firing the signal back to his brain that something was wrong, that there was a giant gaping hole where his quadricep should be. But they also leave him feeling numb, emotionally. They block out the pain that comes from an abusive childhood, and a lack of friends. They block out just how lonely he is, and how he's forced everyone who's tried to care away from him, because he knows they're better off without him.
It's his one true love, currently giving him pleasure greater than any orgasm. It's an old friend that will never let him down, and that will always be there for him. Even when people try to forcibly part him from it, there are always other ways to find his one true love. It's everywhere, calling to him, and he always answers his fair lady's call. No matter how mean he is to it, it always comes back to him. They love each other mutually, no matter how damaging the relationship is on each. He may abuse his lady fair, but she always left him worse than what she gave to him. But he didn't care, no matter how horrible she was to him, she always made him feel better in the end.
She leaves him feeling numb, and that's the way he likes to feel. He rolls slightly onto his side, ever cautious of his thigh, and smiles in his sleep, his mind playing scenarios that he could only wish would happen, the real world not mattering, and all the pain numbed. It's the sound of the remote hitting the floor, and the blissful ignorance of the scenes of withdrawal-he couldn't focus on the television now, even if he wanted to-as he slowly nods out, and nods off to sleep.