Junkhead

Godsmack

"I can't stop," he muttered pleadingly. His bony finger reached up & scratched his nose, feeling & tasting the drips still in the back of his throat. He had done a few lines of blow just before letting Mike in, considering he was nodding off on smack for hours & wanted to "pep up".

He gulped continuously for a while, rubbing his thin arms, suddenly feeling cold. He reached over to grab his sweater, surprised to see that Mike tugged it away from him.

Mike sat back down next to Layne on the couch, fixated on his track marks. Brown eyes slid up curiously to see Layne's reaction. He was grimacing, going back to smoking.

"Please..." He hinted at Mike, those crystal, hazy eyes on his sweater.

Mike nodded & gave it back to him. He peered away to give the man peace of mind that he wasn't analyzing the outcome of his self-destruction anymore.

"So..." Mike started after Layne had his sweater back on. His eyes wandered around his living room again. It was cluttered with Marvel toy figurines, video games & empty booze bottles. He crinkled his nose when he took in the stench of stale cigarettes & body odor.

"You've just been hiding here, ignoring everyone, getting fucked up all day and playing video games...?" Mike asked. He really didn't mean to sound rude, he was just utterly appalled. Ever since Demri died, Layne hadn't been the same.

He knew Demri was just going to make Layne's drug addiction worse. It was inevitable considering they began using heroin together, and he had expressed his concerns about it to Layne many times... but he was too stoned & caught up in the infatuation, the idea of him & Demri somehow miraculously getting clean together and living this wonderful fantasy-laden ending.

Mike sighed, watching his friend suck in another drag from his cigarette. "Look. I know I'm not a saint here," he said, laughing weakly. He watched Layne's expression switch from self-loathing to bitter amusement, his cracked lips turning up slightly. Just a mere shadow of who he once was... "I've done drugs, too, shit...you know that..."

Layne rolled his eyes, stumping out his cigarette and leaning back into his couch. His blue eyes analyzed the spoons on his coffee table for a mere moment. Slowly, he glanced back at his old friend. Those blood-shot ocean eyes pooled with rage.

"You're fucking high off those pills again," Layne accused, his gravelly voice drenched with irritation.

Mike took a huge drag from his cigarette, swiping his dark curling locks away from his face. "...so...? It's not like I'm all strung out on fucking heroin & crack & booze. For christ's sake, Layne, you're a MESS!" he spat, now hot-boxing his cigarette.

Layne laughed mockingly back at him. "Oh, so, since you're not shooting up, you're fucking better than me, is that right?!" He sat up, yanking a spoon & a baggy of dark powder & waving it in his friend's face. "Don't you remember our little birthday celebration with Kurt? You fucking mainlined with us."

Mike's face boiled red, smacking the paraphernalia out of his face. The baggy of heroin skidded across the living room. He watched as layne's face twisted in agony & desperation, jolting up from the couch only to stumble down hard onto his stomach. He rolled over onto his back, arms wrapped tight around his concave stomach (or lack of one), wheezing in pain.

Mike got up from the stool & stood over his skeletal friend's body, his face still boiling with rage. "I remember that night pretty fucking well. It was my fucking birthday. You talked me into doing it. You told me I would just fucking love it, REMEMBER?!?!" He crouched down, his face up close to layne's. "You shot me up twice. But you & Kurt both agreed it wouldn't be enough to enjoy the 'full experience', so fucking Kurt shot me up," he leaned in closer to him, ignoring the fear that burned in Layne's eyes. "I died. On my fucking birthday! For eleven fucking minutes I was DEAD."