Fic: Relief
This was written VERY last minute for purestofprose 's 500 word sensory contest. So... it's rough and probably sucks at the ending, but this is the best I could do. Warnings for drug use.
It starts with a thin white line, seemingly innocuous where it stretches across a broken shard of mirror. The reflective surface catches on a dingy yellow city light streaming in through the car window, casting a spark across the roof. Cold weather had caused the felt-like fabric to sag in the middle so that every time they shifted and twitched in the front seat it dragged across their heads. The interior smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and something more: bitter, acrid, a combination of burned hair and burned chemicals.
But that was a different time, a different kind of line. Tonight, it was the white dash across a silver pool - salvation and escapism combined into a line no longer than a pinky finger, just a little thicker than a hair.
One of them twitches and a few powder-fine particles tumble free from the line. It’s hard to say which of them was responsible because they’re both feeling anxious and the anxiety crawls across their skin and through their brains like festering, infesting insects scratch-scratch-scratching to get free and now they’re both digging at their skin, trying to provide that exit, that release from it all.
But now the question: who goes first?
They’re both equally desperate for a much needed fix. His hands are shaking just as badly as hers, her pallid skin just as clammy as his. Their breathing is shallow, ragged, reminiscent of panting dogs. If their dry mouths were capable of saliva, they would have both been drooling.
But who goes first?
He, ever the gentlemen, meets her bloodshot, dilated eyes and swallows so heavily the knot in his too-skinny neck bobs excessively as he gestures toward the line - their personal Holy Grail - and mutters through broken, yellowed teeth, “G’on. But jus’ half, a’ight?”
Her smile is more lustful than grateful but the desire isn’t for him, though there’s a chance for that later. After they’ve both satisfied the gnawing ache that’d plagued them for the last three days. She quickly pulls out a wadded receipt from her torn jacket and flattens it out on the dashboard, smoothing her hands over the paper repeatedly to press out the lingering creases. The receipt was from a 7-11 three days ago - the same day they’d last eaten something. It’d been a shared chocolate milk and a dried up, deep friend Fiesta Roll apiece.
His white-coated tongue flicks out across thin lips as he watches her roll the receipt. Even though her fingers are shaking, she still manages a perfect tube. The rustle of the receipt is barely heard over their shuddering breaths, now tinged with thin, desperate whines. They’ve wanted - needed - this fix for so long, and now it’s here, just one sharp inhale away. They’re so close to that peaceful, chemical lull, that reordering of chaotic thought and relief from the anxiety that prickles their skin.
The light cuts out and there’s a rap on the glass. They look up, directly into an over-bright flashlight and a badge.