I know it's been a while since I last updated this. I'm sorry for that; I've been one busy birdy. This chapter is short, I know, but I hope it makes up for the wait anyway :)


A rush, orgasmic. Every cell coming alive, lighting up like a Christmas tree. But only for a moment. And then…

Bliss.

Body numbed, mind silent, lungs empty, muscles warm and lax and liquid. You don't move; you don't need to. Ever. It's like falling, or you've already fallen, sunk so low that there's nothing around you, not even air, only the darkness… and that's okay.

That's okay.

Down here, you don't feel the oppressive heat of the room. Down here, you can't see the cracks in the ceiling, the watermarks where the whole place could tumble down around your ears any second. You don't hear the endless mixtape of noise from outside; drunken hollering, car brakes screeching, sirens. You don't care that the fridge is empty except for a biohazardous carton of milk, because you aren't hungry. You need nothing.

You don't remember her, dead in a bathtub full of cooling water and blood.

You don't remember –

You don't remember that

WE HAVE AIDS

It's just dark, and everything's all right.

And then there are hands on your shoulders, shaking you hard, hard, amd you can't move to push them away because you're not there anymore. You are not inside your body, linked to it by only the thinnest thread.

The fingers of those hands dig into your shoulders one final time, desperately, and then they are gone.

The nothingness returns, for a while. You welcome it, revel in it.

And then there are more hands on you, coming from everywhere, they're lifting you, speaking in sounds you can't make sense of. The nothingness is receding, and you try to follow it down, to block everything else out.

You are moving. Fast. To where? You don't know, and can't bring yourself to care. When the next wave of soporific oblivion rises to claim you, you fling yourself into it.

A cool hand touches your arm. You imagine an angel, faceless, with a soothing voice.

And then a pain lights up your arm, and you're pulling in air that you're suddenly starved for. There isn't enough, your lungs have folded in on themselves, you can't get them to work the way they should. Every inch of you prickles: your scalp, your fingertips. Your eyes flash open without your permission, and all you see is white.

You wonder, is this death?

You wonder, do you care?

And then something presses over your face, and you breathe. Deeply. It feels like surfacing from deep under water; the light is blinding and the air rushing to fill your chest now is the sweetest thing you have ever tasted.

Bliss.

And then you remember.

You remember everything.

Alone and half-conscious in the white hospital room, Roger begins to cry.


Just a brief disclaimer: I have never overdosed on heroin. Or anything else, as a matter of fact, unless you count caffeine. Therefore, I have absolutely no idea how the experience feels. This chapter is probably ridiculously inaccurate in that area, but my goal was to make it somewhat interesting. I used Renton's overdose in Trainspotting as inspiration for some of it, btw. Fantastic movie, if you're in to that sort of thing :)

Now, I have no idea when the next update will come, as I'm kind of stuck at this point. If you have any ideas, please send them my way, along with any other feedback or comments you may have :)