He's been back for an hour, trying to calm down.
He showers, trying to wash every inch of grime off his body. He lathers, rinses, repeats until his hair hangs limp. He washes his wrist until its red and raw. He wants the thin man's filth off of him. He lets the water run down the drain, washing away the small pile of vomit.
He goes through the motions he's been too busy to remember. The liquid that smells like dirt and hospitals and illness trickles onto his one pair of jeans. His hip throbs when the needle goes in the way it only does one in a hundred times, and he sees blood in the white plastic tube when he pulls the needle from his hip. With the luck he's been having, when he pulls the set out, he'll have a big black and blue bruise as well as a little white scar.
It's as though fate is trying to spite him tonight. First the drunk man in the club, now this.
It's a battle he's been waging with his body. He's not going to loose.
The urge to vomit comes again, as it had outside the club… in the taxi… in the shower.
He makes it to the bathroom before it happens.
He brushes his teeth, praying to whatever deity is listening to his hapless prayer that this will be the last time.
He fishes a white plastic strip encased in a white foil wrapper from the waistband of his boxers. He christens it, thanking god that it says tan. Its just alcohol, then.
He goes back to his room and gulps down the last of his bottle of water. From his nightstand, he fishes out the bottle of medicine with the orange and white label and a fresh syringe.
He calculates a dose in his head, checks it against his phone, and draws back the plunger.
Orange cap in his teeth, needle sticking out of his right arm, he is twisted toward the door as Nick unlocks it and slides inside.
Their eyes meet for a moment as Nick takes in the situation. There is no way he will get out of explaining this.
He has lost control.
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