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His head hung over the toilet bowl. Blood dripped off his knuckles. The tile was cold, and he couldn’t feel his toes. The faucet dripped. The light flickered and the air was thick, pale yellow glow illuminating the mess he was in. Fuck, it was cold.
Fuck, it was cold. It was cold and he kept thinking there was nothing in his stomach. And then he was retching again and he wished he was dead. He wished he was dead.
The wishy-washy green bile settled in toilet. Matched his washed out hair. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. Voice was so raspy and throat so raw it’d be a miracle if he could talk any time soon.
Cheek against porcelain, his head rested on his sickly white arm. Contrasted beautifully with the toilet seat. He could fucking cry. He could cry but it’s no fucking use. Not going to get him anywhere.
He spits back into his vomit water. The smell is nauseating. Good thing he already turned his stomach inside out.
There were two lines sitting on the bathroom counter. One pristine, one scattered haphazardly next to his last rock. Two lines, a rock, a crisp hunna, and shiny new metal blade.
He was so fucking sick inside when he stumbled his way into the bathroom that evening. A pool of straight vodka sloshed in his stomach. Dealer hooked him up real good this time. Just couldn’t wait to get home and try it all out.
Apparently DXM doesn’t sit well on top of a bottle and a half of Grand Teton. Who would’ve fuckin known, right?
Michael thought it was just so funny. So funny and he was so tired and he couldn’t keep his eyes open and he was on his second cup and third wanking session. There was nothing on TV. He figured he could use a lil blow to sweeten the pot. It had been a shitty week, why the fuck not?
And there he was chopping it into neat lines. Neat lines and he fished around the pocket of his unzipped pants, stained with tiny pink splotches. He only had one big bill left, he realized. He realized, and it was kind of killing his high. That wasn’t okay. No, that could not happen, he could not, he couldn’t—he couldn’t fall it was too early in the fucking night.
His eyes are blinking and he’s so fucking sick inside. So fucking sick inside.
He looks up into the mirror, and he looks like he’s gonna cry, and this is so fucking stupid he wanted a little contrast. A little up to crash against his low. The pink stuff was no fucking good to stay awake with, no. He needed it all to last a little longer. It always needs to last a little fucking longer.
So there are tears in his eyes, and he’s staring at himself. Feels like he might pass out, his head is so bogged under the haze of all the bullshit he’s put in. His heart felt almost still in his chest, and it was so good until he remembers how bad he’ll ache tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is so presumptuous. Tomorrow doesn’t fucking exist for him, right? You have a little too much and you’re gone? You blow all your money on all these highs and lows and your boyfriend leaves you. He screams about how he loves you, and can’t watch this, and can’t stand all the missing cash from his wallet. He screams at you and you don’t even remember it because you were too far under. You slur out his name, but his tall frame is fuzzy, moving away, down the hall.
He felt that shit first hand but it made him so much fucking worse. Now he’s gotta drown out blue blue eyes and soft blond hair and all this fucking love and regret and hate and these broken fucking promises it’s just too much it’s just too fucking much, he can’t keep it all down, he can’t keep it all down—
Before he knew what he was doing his fist met the mirror and his reflection shattered and he was sobbing but there was no sound coming from his lips and his stomach was flipping and the cold bathroom tile looked the most inviting it ever has.
He was on his knees and shaking, body giving up everything it had.
He was so sure he was going to make something of himself. He was so sure he was going to give Luke the life he fucking deserved. He was going to be golden. He was going to be on top of the world. That’s what it was supposed to be, right? They were supposed to go so fucking far with their little band. They were supposed to be kings.
But here he fucking is, back alley trash on the floor thinking of what they could’ve been. Everything is always ‘what if’ and ‘could’ve’.
He sniffs, and he wants to get up but there’s nothing in him to fuel that. There’s nothing in him at all. Fucking nothing. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw because he swears he’s not going to cry again.
The blood has dried on his hand, and the frigid air stings against the open wounds. Can’t do anything about it. He can’t do anything at all. Broken, hopeless, headed nowhere. This is his life. He can’t escape it.
He can’t escape it.