He finally opened the door, grudgingly, glaring at his long lost friend. He appeared to be tired, his eyes halfway closed. His long, scrawny body huddled over as he leaned his head against the frame of his condo doorway. "What?" he growled meekly, breaking the awkward silence.
"Layne. I haven't seen you in months," Mike snapped. His angry demeanor faltered, those brown eyes softening with sympathy as he watched his best friend cower away from him.
This was not fucking Layne, what the hell? Mike thought to himself.
He attempted to push open the door, surprised that Layne allowed him to actually come in this time. It had been months since the last time he hung out with Layne in his condo. Mike Starr watched his friend's now stick-like body slowly limp over to his couch.
He was disturbed by what was happening with Layne. He didn't think Layne was getting this bad. Sean had tried to warn him before coming over... But Sean always seemed to over-react when it came to Layne's drug addiction.
Layne watched his friend of nearly 15 years gape awkwardly at his trashed-out living room. Sighing, he yanked a cigarette from his pack on the coffee table (that was cluttered with spoons, a bowl of bleach with syringe needles resting within, lighters, & baggies of brown & white powder). He lit it, inhaling deeply.
"Mike..." He moaned aloud, his glassy blue eyes sliding back to the scrawny brunette. He eyed Layne wearily, stopping himself from observing how filthy his kitchen was. Layne smiled weakly at him, patting the cushion next to him. "Figured since you haven't seen me in months, you'd like to...oh, I don't know...talk to me instead of staring at the molding food in my kitchen..."
"Dude, it literally looks like it's moving in there. And it smells like horse shit," Mike laughed nervously, slumping onto the couch next to him.
He couldn't help but to stare at Layne. He was shocked by how horrible he looked. His hair was long & matted, his eyes sunk deep into his skull, watery & red. His skin was almost transparent. He was so unbelievably thin. Layne had always been a scrawny guy but DAMN...even under the sweater he was wearing, you could tell he was horribly emaciated. His cheekbones jutted from his face & you could see outlines of his clavicles & ribs through the fabric of his garments. His arms & legs resembled twigs...
Layne laughed anxiously, exhaling cigarette smoke & shrugging at Mike. "What? Am I that handsome?" He kidded. He wet his lips & scowled at himself when his friend didn't laugh at his joke. Instead, mike's eyes widened & filled with tears.
"You...you look..." he paused, shaking his head and yanking a cig out of Layne's pack and lighting it. He glared back into those stoned blue eyes. "Do you have a death wish or something?!" he shrieked, standing up. He pointed a shaky finger at his best friend, trying to fight back the tears. "You look like you haven't slept in a week, you're a walking fucking skeleton, your condo has gone to hell..." He shook his head, taking a seat on the stool across from his couch. As much as he tried to fight it, the tears fell down his cheeks as he took a drag from his smoke. "What in God's name are you doing, Layne? You're better than this..."
Layne glared at his shaking, gloved hand. Shrugging his bony shoulders, he set his cigarette down in the ashtray, leaning over to reach under his coffee table to grab a bottle of Jameson's. He took a nice couple of gulps, attempting to calm down his nerves. Those bony, trembling hands tugged off the black gloves, revealing dull brown bruises from needle probing on them.
He flinched when he heard his friend gasp. Still, he pressed on, making sure to avoid eye contact. He pulled his sweater off, showing his tooth pick arms to him. They were so thin that his elbows were twice as large in comparison to his bicep & forearm...and they were matted with track marks. Gnarly, bumpy, & purple. When he heard Mike sob again, he stopped himself, his brows curling in desperation as he looked at him.
"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."
"AND I SAVED YOU!" Layne shouted, tears rolling down his sharp cheek bones. He curled up, doubling over in more pain. His hand reaching out for the bag of dope. Mike stomped his foot on it, flinching at the pained shriek from Layne that followed.
"Then YOU died and I had to save you!" Mike growled. "Kurt's lame ass was too stoned and nodding off on H to help me. Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?! And now look at you. You look like a fucking disgusting worthless junky!" He screamed, tearing up when he noticed the agony burnt on Layne's face.
Just when Mike was about to say more, Layne hurled yellow stomach bile & blood all over the white living room carpet. Mike lifted his foot off of his best friend's hand, terror treading hard within his chest. He darted into the bathroom down the hallway & grabbed a towel, quickly wetting it with soap. He ran back, handing it to the skeletal shell that resembled Layne Staley. He watched as Layne attempted to get himself up off the floor. Mike shook his head as he decided, after a few minutes, to give Layne a hand.
"Thanks man....got dizzy for a minute there," Layne muttered groggily, still sitting on the floor near his puke. Those blue eyes glanced at it, them quickly squinting with disgust & vomitting more blood.
"Holy fucking shit, Layne, what's going on?!" Mike shrieked.
Layne, shakily, stood himself up by grabbing the edge of his couch. He tried to stand but instead helplessly collapsed back onto the cushion. "...I've...I've been sick, Mike...."
Concern was sketched on the bassist's face. "For how fucking long?!"
Layne exhaled deeply & shrugged. "I dunno... A couple weeks... Haven't been able to eat...every time I do I either shit myself or puke..."
Mike stumbled over to Layne's landline phone on his kitchen table, ignoring the cockroaches that were scurrying away from him. "Fuck, I'm calling an ambulance--"
"NO YOU FUCKING DONT, MIKE!!!!" Layne screamed, edging his way off the couch.
Mike ran over to him, begging him not to attempt to stand up again. Anger still steamed from Layne, frail arms pushing Mike away. "If you call the motherfucking ambulance, I'm not even messing with you, our friendship will be OVER."
Mike's hands shook, his mind overencumbered with the fear. "Layne...you could fucking DIE!" Mike ran back to the phone, picking it up again.
"I MEAN IT, MIKE!!!!"
He shook his head. "No, dude. I don't care anymore. I hate seeing you like this. You need serious fucking help." He dialed in the number. "I'm calling the ambulance right now."
Layne tried to get back up, but fell over again, screaming in more agony. He reached over to the bag of dope, trying to ignore what Mike was saying as he crawled back up onto his couch.
"Yes, that's the address..." He heard Mike mutter into the phone.
Tears streamed down Layne's sunken face, pouring heroin onto the spoon.
Mike glared over at Layne, his brown eyes filling with tears again. "Please be here as soon as possible, he's lost a large amount of weight... he can't keep any food down...he can't even stand, he keeps collapsing...please..."
Layne dripped a few drops of water into the spoon, stirring it with the dropper. Once it was mixed, he flicked his lighter under it.
"His name is Layne Staley. 34 years old. I'm not sure if he'll be conscious by the time the ambulance arrives," Mike sobbed.
Layne grabbed one of his clean syringes, dunking it in his cup of water & drying it off with a towel next to the cup. He carefully sucked up the H into the syringe, tapped out the bubbles & plunged out the air, and set it down on the coffee table. He then grabbed a leather belt next to the pile of spoons. He wrapped it taught around his bone-thin bicep, his arm flushing red as he pumped his fist.
"Ugh.......yes, he's the lead singer of Alice in Chains...... Yeah yeah yeah, he really is a heroin addict. YES, this is heroin-related?!!! Isn't this illegal to be speaking about this over the phone?! Just get your fucking people over here!" Mike screamed into the phone. He hung up on them, slamming the phone into the receiver and turning to Layne.
Layne had just shot up, removing the syringe from his forearm, a tired smirk on his now beat-red face. His pupils were so tiny his eyes just appeared to be a dull gray. When he noticed Mike staring at him, he immediately frowned. "You're dead to me," he growled.
"Layne! I just care! Please--"
His emaciated body slumped over onto the couch & slid onto the floor, right into his own puddle of blood-bile vomit.
The sounds of sirens & pounding on the door interrupted the freak show. Mike ran to open it. The paramedics easily slid him onto the carrier, rolling the corpse-like version of Layne Staley into the ambulance truck. Mike didn't even ask if he could tag along in the ride, he just ran into the truck.