Scribble Comic

One.

To my friend who lost, and my brother who won.

Click!

My eyes open. The fan above me has started turning, slowly moving the heat around the room. My body is soaked in sweat I fear has nothing to do with the stifling heat. The ache has replaced the warmth I fell into last night before the darkness came. I feel down my arm for my familiar friend and am satisfied to find I was able to get it out of my arm before nodding off. I wipe greasy hair from my forehead and stare at the fan. It starts to make me nauseous.  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and get up as quickly as I can—not as quickly as a well person would. I head towards the shower but stop as I reach the door, which is closed. I don’t remember leaving it like that, being in the house by myself. It had been years since I had room mates, as far as my foggy memory could tell. Perhaps it was only a few weeks—who could really say. The blackouts took so much of your life from you. Not that it mattered.

I reached the bathroom, moldy in the grout and damp in the corners—and started the shower as hot as I would be able to handle. The pipes creaked their usual monotone anguish and the room soon fills with steam. Once the self in the mirror can no longer judge my bloodshot eyes and gaunt face, I take my stained underwear off and step under the water, pulling the curtain around me. The water is near scorching, but I hold myself under it enjoying the warmth as though it was close to the blissful oblivion the H gave me the night before. 

I whip the curtain back and let the room fill with steam, something an old junkie taught me to help with the aches that were to come soon enough. “Be prepared, you dealt those cards to yourself son,” is what he had said. He Od’ed a few months later. No one in our circle came to his funeral—out of respect we would tell ourselves, but really I don’t think many of us cared anything for the old fella. Just another sad story to show his family, who needed the downer. Still, I followed as he had taught me—staying in the steamed room for another twenty minutes until the water tank emptied and the water went ice cold. I hated it but stuck my face under the water for a moment, hoping for the grogginess to clear, knowing full well that it wouldn’t. 

Turning the faucet off I stepped out of the shower and dried off with my one grimy towel, telling myself to pick one up yet again, knowing I probably wouldn’t. Being sure of it. 1:17. I check my watch. The hands agree with me. I tell myself I better get moving if I want to make it to the meeting on time. Steam billows out from the bathroom as I enter it naked heading towards my closet. I dress slowly, not enjoying the feeling of the rough fabrics of the thrift store clothes on my body. I wrap myself in my leather jacket, it’s coolness a soft repose to my last forty-five minutes. It and the patches I’ve sewn into the one thing I actually do care about. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, as I head for the door. The bottom lock doesn’t work, but I doubt that half of them do in this building, so I jam it shut and force the top lock across to offer some meager resistance to whoever would want to steal my home kit. The smaller set I carry with me sits in a pocket I had sewn into the lining of the leather jacket when I first got it. I was new back then, still getting the full hit thinking it would last forever. Now it’s just to stay normal and fight the oncoming demons in my life. 

I pass Jerry the geriatric on the stoop. He offers a trembling cup to me. I toss in a silver half dollar. Half a block away I make it to the snack station sequestered in the corner behind metal grating and somehow still semi destroyed–and hit the lower left coke button three times. A collection of coins fill the receptacle, I fist them into my jeans pocket and hurry along, as quickly as the rising awareness would allow, shrugging my shoulders as I pass a television store—one of the only businesses left in the area worth staying with all those dependent on their copayments to get their fixes of dopamine each night, and keep their children safe during the day. On the screen plays a mediocre c list actor I couldn’t care to put a name to. Morality Man flashes across the screen in glaring letters. His yellow and red jumpsuit depicts him as some sort of superhero figure, as far as I can tell—as it’s repeated a dozen times as I span the length of the stores display windows. A pair of homeless men stare at the screens taking in his antics in multitudes as the seconds pass. 

I take a left at the corner, leaving them, and him to his adventures.

TWO.

WE ALL KNOW WHY THEY DO IT, BUT why?

When I arrive at the meeting hall, a room down a long corridor on the left of a building just as tired as the rest of my neighborhood, but good enough to open their doors to people like us—the girl that’s always there first, who I only know as Quiet girl, is setting up chairs. She doesn’t stop until she’s filled the room in a circle, though most of the time there’s few and far between of us and we’re at an arm’s length from one another. It’s an intimate space, as large as it is. A place of secrets and truths that most if not all of us wouldn’t or couldn’t share with others that haven’t been through the same thing. 

The lighting makes me feel queasy, and I realize I haven’t eaten in two days. The girl, quiet and unassuming, offers me an apple as she had done since our first meeting. I take it and pull a knife from my back pocket and begin slicing into it. I offer the first slice to her. She smiles wordlessly, as she always does, and takes the piece. We share our meal while waiting for the others to arrive. 

Henry, an overly obese black man is the first. He has trouble fitting through the door but with heavy breath makes it to his usual seats and sits down. We make no mention of the fact that he splits two seats as a park bench would. He’s sweating—probably from the walk from his car down the hall, and the strain on his heart, and as he pulls a yellowed sweat stained rag from his front shirt pocket, he smiles sheepishly at the two of us. 

“Good to see you two again,” he says, “Red Delicious. My favorite.” 

The apple was gone five minutes ago, but he can always tell when there’s food around or has been. I grin at him and sit down across from him and where the quiet girl sits in a triangular formation and can feel the gentle shakes begin to take me. The ache grows. My vision momentarily gets funny, and I must squint my eyes to see clearly, and it’s all back into focus again. I grip the underside of the folding metal chair and can feel the distinct shape where some asshole had stuck their gum to dry before moving my hand further along the rim of the chair—squeezing it tight.

Quiet girl keeps her eyes off the both of us, eyeing the corners of the room and the holed ceiling tiles above. 

The flickering of the lights is starting to get to me. I catch glimpses of it off of everything. The coffee machine. The rounded corners of each chair within the circle of those to come. Insidious cascades of glimmering intervention. I wish they had left the covers on the light fixtures, but they were removed after Kevin broke one of them with a chair after a particularly bad discussion. Never heard from him after that. Perhaps he was barred from coming back. Most likely the staff hardly cared and he was in some alleyway living his life. If at all. 

I listen to the tick of the clock on the wall behind me and count the minutes until the meeting is meant to start. 

We wait for twenty-five minutes until it strikes 2:30 on the clock in the corner. I look up to check. The clock is digital, its dull grey plastic housing encased in a metal black mesh grated box. Was I just hearing the ticking then? Of what though—my own mortality perhaps, or something worse. 

The knob on the door turned—and she came in—long dark hair and all, swaying behind and around her as she shut the door behind her and looked over the three of us. 

She smiled. White teeth flashed behind lipstick peach lips. Not a mether then, I noted. The woman, likely in her mid-twenties if not a year younger, offered a small wave to us, looks at her hand, and laughs awkwardly—hiding her smile behind thin fingers. She’s cute. I wonder why she’s here, finally having something to look forward to during this meeting. She sits down between Quiet girl and Henry forcing us into a triangular pointed diamond with me as the centered tip, while beginning to play with her hair, black to the point of blueness and well-conditioned. Sitting across from me I’m able to see her more clearly—clean pressed clothes that were a couple of years out of season, as if I knew what would be current high fashion in any case.  This one looked after herself, regardless of what afflicted her—slightly anxious, or “pretending to be to blend into a group of strangers” as my mate Jeremy would say. He had schizophrenia of the severe paranoid type and was often late to the meetings. We would be halfway through most of them and he would often show up disheveled due to a lack of nice clothing, but reeking of that fake plastic pine tree scent that was only offered by air fresheners you could get in multipacks at the dollar store which he wore around his neck as an idol of faith against his illness. 

He was a farm boy once, working hard on his parents farmland while hating his life. He lived in a trailer on the property where he had some privacy and grew what amounted to a federally criminal amount of weed under the cover of another crops white sheeting. Mostly corn he would often repeat to me as we hung out at his place—often immaculate down to the nearest dust free corner—as it grew tall so you could grow the buds taller and weave the latticing he constructed for the plants to their fullest offshoots. He enjoyed the engineering in it he would say with a glimmer of what was once hope, or his current state of illness—it was hard to say, but I always let him speak, as he often shut himself away for days at a time refoiling and scrubbing down his apartment once again. It was only once he reeked of bleach and other cleaning agents to the point of almost passing out that he would venture out to gather more supplies—mostly for his centerpiece on his table. A small fake Christmas tree made from toilet cleaning brush filaments literally covered in each colour of pine tree fragrance he could find. His “ornaments” he called them. 

One day in his late teens while in the barn pitching bags of dung, and ripping into one of many bongs he stashed around the farmstead, he lifted the bag wrong, and its full fifty pound weight fell on his head, knocking him unconscious. 

When he woke, he says, there was a giant bag of shit sitting on his chest, split open at the top staring down at him—and as it called his name, spilling chunks of horse dung and fermented hay onto his face and into his mouth and nose—he screamed and forced his way away from it, puking up the fecal material in a rush of morning eggs and a mid-morning meal of junk food. The bag rolled over, “Jeremy…”. 

He ran from it but even when he made it to the trailer, his “one bastion of solitude” as he called it—there came a thudding on the metal sheeted door. “Jeremy, this won’t do. You have to let me in. You don’t want me festering in the morning heat or you’ll never get the smell off of you,” offered the grinning bag, a trail of shit following behind it heading from the barn, “then there came a gurgling sound from outside, as though it attempted to laugh”. 

Jeremy screamed again, pushed back the smoke dirtied curtain a bit, and clear as day there stood the bag, “Dayton Farms” imprinted on its front in deep green paint with the stencil he would have used months ago to mark it for their own use instead of trade or sale. 

It didn’t take long for his parents to find him sitting in his trailer babbling to himself, only to point to the talking bag of shit next to him on the couch, and tell them who he was talking with some grandiosity. 

The docs came and got him, and even then he wasn’t alone as he recalls—when he wants to talk about the ward at all, and he was diagnosed overnight as a schizo. They kept him there until he learned to stay silent and offer the right answers when asked and was eventually released. 

To this day he says that Dayton as Jeremey came to call him, has never left his side—and that’s why he’s always in need of the extreme feeling of being clean and fresh, as he puts it. 

There was a clambering down the hallway, and it seemed that he was on time for once. 

The door slammed open and Jeremy, and I suppose Dayton, came into the room. It had clearly not been a good day for my friend, as he was arguing and waving his hands around explaining to his colleague that “No, he couldn’t sit next to him, but would he please just wait outside for this one meeting.” Dayton seemed reluctant, which incensed Jeremy, who crashed down on to his seat next to me. Finally he held out his arm and offered the seat next to him to the being only he could see, grimacing all the while, but we all knew and agreed was there when asked—if only to give him some people he could trust with a momentary respite. The problem wasn’t Dayton, I don’t think, but the fact that Jeremy was suspicious of everything he was given, in case it caused further issues. That meant he was often under or completely unmedicated. The one thing he did do, for his family, was to stop smoking weed—though we never knew how he paid his rent as he wasn’t stable enough to get on disability on his own, and never asked for monetary help. I figured his return trips home also included a few pounds of what he needed to cover his rent and food needs for a while. I never asked and never saw it anywhere, so the point was moot. 

I eyed the new girl, who held my gaze for a moment before giggling and her hand over that smile again. Yes, definitely cute.

“So, when do we start these things?” Piped up her voice from across the room. 

It bounced off the room causing my vision to blur momentarily. I gripped the side of the chair once more, this time reaching for the familiarity of the gum and squeezed into it until my eyes cleared up once again. The ache worsened, and I could feel sweat pop up from my brow. 

“Whenever you like hon,” offered Henry, smiling gregariously.

She stood up from her chair, offering a small cough into her hand, and introduced herself. 

“I’m Milia—there are a few things I’ve done that I’m ashamed of, and a few others that I’ve done to get by, but that’s all I’m willing to share at the moment—is that okay?” She asked the room, looking to each of us in turn. 

I smiled and nodded. 

Mysterious to boot. I wondered why I couldn’t get a reading from her, like I could the others. Perhaps because she was new. Perhaps because the need for another hit was coming on like a freight train bearing down from the back of my mind. A skin pop, and I’d be good for the rest of the day, I thought. I couldn’t wait. 

“Welcome Milia,” offered Henry. 

Jeremy spoke up, “See—she’s polite. Why can’t you be like that?” He muttered staring at the empty chair next to him. 

Milia stared down at him thoughtfully for a moment and sat down slowly and quietly. 

She continually covered her face with her hair, twirling it between her fingers and stared at the floor. Quiet girl reached out and put her hand on her shoulder and smiled. Milia turned to her and returned her smile

“What’s your name? You seem awfully young to be here,” asked Milia. 

After a moment of staring at the floor trying to lose her eye, Quiet girl spoke up “My parent’s named me Junko, but I don’t often answer to it. Ko is fine or just a wave will do,” said the newly named Ko. 

I had been coming to this dingy room and watched her set up those chairs time and time again, and never once thought to ask for her name. How rude of me, even though we bonded over the apple each time of which she was ever ready. Junko—if I remember my high school Japanese from a decade prior, meant being pure—and suited her to a T. Ko on the other hand was a boys name if that came to me correctly. What I do remember from hearing that voice naming itself gave it presence that I hadn’t noticed before. She was thin. Fit, but not underweight. Toned even. Ko was likely just reaching the cusp of her teens or the beginnings of her twenties. It was hard to tell as her face was often hard to see for some reason. As though the light around her bent to her form to help her blend into the background of anything near her. But that could have been me. I found myself grinding my teeth and unclenched my jaw. I focused on a point of light coming from the coffee machine in the corner until it hurt and blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision again. Purple inverts played along with me until they settled, and it became what it once was. I stared at the floor for a moment, then lifted my head. 

“Shall we start then?” I asked the group. 

2:37 I think. The clock confirmed it. 

They shuffled a collection of yeses and I smiled. 

Nobody spoke for a moment. 

“Can I go first?” Jeremey asked. 

The group nodded. It often started this way. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Dayton’s being a real piece of shit lately,” he said, “Won’t stop spreading his innards all over the apartment, following me around constantly. Took forever to clean the hallway this time as he was practically dancing around the place.”

We all nodded empathetically. Except the new girl who has no idea about Dayton. 

She looked to me with a question in her eyes and I smiled. “Schizo-,” I mouth. She nodded minutely and turns her smile to Jeremy and widened it. 

“What do you do with all his leavings?” She asked, furrowing her brow. 

Jeremy looked her up and down eyeing her with the gleam of someone not quite sure the person asking the question was real but so sure of the question being asked he couldn’t help himself but to answer. 

“There’s a dustbin and cleaning supplies in the closet. I asked for them the first time I came here and they’ve been here ever since. I’m just glad Dayton isn’t a double or triple loader then we’d all be screwed,” he mentions, “can’t you smell it?!—wafting through the hallway and under the damned drafty door?” 

Jeremy is clearly starting to get agitated. I notice his markers far too well being his likely one and only friend and all. 

The mystery girl pops her fingers over her nose and squeezes them tightly and in a nasally voice replies “of course. Of course. My apologies—just curious is all.” 

This seemed to calm Jeremy down a bit and he eased back into his seat. He sat quietly just long enough for Henry to look over at Milia. 

It’s nice to meet you miss. I’m Henry. As you can see I’ve got a certain problem with eating. Can’t get enough of the stuff unfortunately. Everything just seems to hang on like a sack of potatoes. Had to go on a strict diet, but—you know—that doesn’t always work for everybody. 

Milia nods and offers an empathetic smile from one corner of her lips. 

She’s downright pretty I think to myself while Henry continued on. 

“My troubles started a few years ago. I was walking through Grayson’s—you know on eleventh?”, he says, “and I just started having this pang of hunger that just wasn’t quite right. Something about it made me feel like I could eat gosh just darn near about anything at that point. So, I went around the store and picked up my usual amount of foodstuffs, I was vegan back then so it was mostly vegetables and fruits. Thin as a rake too. Healthy at least. As it was, I come upon the periodicals, and there’s a view of comics down low where the kids can reach to give to their parents to buy or buy themselves if they’ve got the nickels. I see on—can’t remember the cover for the life of me—but as I go down to pick it up that pang grows inside me and so I did the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life if I must tell you that. You know what I did?” Henry asked. 

Milia shook her head no. 

Henry blushed and wiped at his brow as beads of sweat poured from it. 

“I ripped off a piece of it—and ate it. Isn’t that the most unconventional thing to do with a comic book miss?” 

Milia laughed. 

“Is that all? I’m sure all of us here have had our own irrational thoughts—right?”

We all nodded. Except Jeremy. 

“Not me. I do a good job of hiding it but Dayton’s stink is everywhere I go without fail, so he has to be real.”

Milia faltered. She looked at me with mild concern in her eyes. 

I smiled at her and minutely shrugged. 

Henry gets back to his story. 

“I felt badly that I damaged the comic—I bought it. Ended up eating strips of it all the way home on the bus. Folding them up so they looked like chewing gum and sucking the ink out of them. I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

Milia put her hand on his gigantic knee. 

“That’s okay—were you able to overcome the need to chew?”

Henry flopped his head from side to side before responding. 

“In a way yes, but not before I got up to this weight. I don’t know if you can tell but I’m nearly 500 lbs deep into my addiction. But eventually I did find a way to stop stacking the weight on,” he replied. 

Milia raised her arms in the air.

“That’s fantastic! How’d you do it?”

Henry looked at the dull carpet, worn by thousands of footfalls over the decades the center had been open—probably the original floor.

“Oh, you know, diet and exercise.” 

He mopped at his brow with his rag once again and fell silent. 

Milia squeezed what she could of his knee. 

“That’s great,” she said, “How much have you lost so far?”

Henry got up, both chairs squeaking heavily as he did so, and left—small tears in his eyes.  

He had trouble getting through the door—and then was gone, stomping down the hallway, but none of us took the time to notice. We were all too busy looking at Milia. 

Her smile faltered. 

“What did I do?,” she asked. 

“He’s very sensitive about his weight,” said Junko

“Oh…,” responded Milia. 

I nodded. 

“Yeah, he’s a real heartbroken one, Henry. If his strings were wound any tighter, he would have snapped years ago, but he’s a gentle soul.”

Jeremy looked at the three (four) of us in turn.

“Do we continue or shall we call it for the meeting. You’d think he’d be running out of here all the time.”

“No, we can not just leave Dayton.”

I leaned back in my chair, tipping it off of its front legs while balancing with my feet. 

“I’m down to leave for the day if you are,” I offered. 

So close to my next dose of oblivion, I think to myself. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. That was all too chintzy, even for me. But an early excuse to leave would get me home faster to sequester myself. 

Junko offered a small side nod, meaning she could go either way. 

Jeremy spoke up once again.

“I’m happy to do the full 30 minutes. Keith, how much longer have we got?”

“2:57,” I say. 

Jeremy turns to check. His face sinks. 

“Ah, looks to be right on the money—again. Let’s call it, and I’ll see you folks next week. Keith you’re still coming over tonight right?”

I nod.

As Jeremy’s chapped lips split into a grin—you can see the missing teeth from his days of being unwell before coming to town.

 “Great,” he said, “I’ll make sure to have the place cleaned up for you.”

I offered a thumbs up, and returned his smile. He leaves. No more than a few steps before leaving and entering the hallway does he start up with his alter ego. A large door can be heard swinging open sharply against the muffling force of the carpet beneath it and he could be heard muttering as he cleaned up after Dayton as he left. He always left the dustpan and broom at the door leading out to the street, and miraculously it always was returned to the hallway once we’d left for the night. 

The ache was turning into a dull roar, so I turned to Junko.

“Do you mind putting these back today? I know it’s not fair, but I’ve gotta meet a guy about a thing—you know,” I placated, her knowing full well of my habit. 

Junko nodded and smiled. 

“I’ll see you next week Keith,” turning to Milia, “would you mind helping me, please?”

Milia turned to her. 

“Oh, sure thing honey—but only if Keith here waits for me outside.”

Surprised, I agreed, and head for the door. 

I waited outside on the street where something once stood, a light fixture, or a simple phone booth—I wouldn’t know either way, until Milia came out, smiling as she bounded down the steps to the street two at a time.

I think of her long legs wrapped around my back and smiled at her. Either she’s wearing shoes that help, or we’re of similar height. Her eyes are a crystal blue against her black hair.  Perhaps that’s what I was seeing reflecting between the strands. Who knew. All I could think about was either bedding this woman or getting my next hit. Both would be bliss; I just knew it.

She came up to me, pulling a cigarette pack from her back jeans pocket and lit one quickly, and took an inhale.  

“You’re not a cop are you?” I asked, squinting my eyes in mock suspicion. 

She coughed a laugh. 

“Are you serious?,” she asked “I’ve been in juvie twice. They’re definitely not my sort of people.”

I eyed her, for a moment seriously considering her answer, then my view fell sloping along the curves of her body to the points of her shoes.

“Is there something you wanted from me?”

Milia nodded. 

“Two things actually. One—do you know where I can get a good burger around here. And two—do you think you could share some of your kit with me while I find a dealer of my own? I’ll get you back right after I make the cut.” 

Shit.

This girl’s a user like me looking for a meal and a handout. Maybe if I’m lucky I can turn it into a free night of high sexual exploration and she’d be on her way to the next town the morning after, me missing my kits and whatever money I happened to stash within my meager walls. 

“How’d you know?” I cautioned. 

She shrugged. 

“H knows H. Plus—I could see your kit bulging out under all those patches. Did you notice that you centered them around that part of your jacket? Probably subconsciously reinforcing the area, or just your favorite spot for the most part,” she said smiling with her pearly whites. 

I stretched the jacket off my body and looked at the patches for that area. 

She had me. 

I nodded slowly. 

“Alright, I can take you to the burger joint on 3rd once we’ve done some other stuff, then once you’re full of blue plate special, I’ll take you to my person,” I say, “but if you pull any tricks at that point, we’re both dead.” 

She nodded. 

“Great! I’ve been itching for a hit for the last two days; it’s been a killer.”

She must be fresh in the lifestyle, or naturally covering it well—I thought. 

I looked back at the doorway to the facility. 

“Is Junko going to come out soon?”

Milia shook her head. 

“She told me she would finish up when we were only half done. I think part of her likes it. The peace of it all. I am sorry about Henry, I will apologize to him the next time I see him.” 

I purse my lips. 

“Probably a good idea. He may sound like he’s letting you off easily, but he’s a bit fragile since his wife and daughter passed three years ago.” 

Milia raised a hand to her mouth.

“What happened?”

I point down the street in the general direction of my place.

“I’ll tell you as we head back to my place. I should have enough for both of us there and then I have chores to do, and then my dear—I’ll take you to dinner and dessert.”

She giggled. 

“Sure thing.”

Three.

You could argue either way for their potential.

Junko placed the remaining stack of chairs in one corner so they could be arranged neatly on the racks where they should be kept most nights. The closed her eyes and thought of them being there, where the rest of the chairs needed to be and opened her eyes. They glowed a faint green while a portal opened, and the chairs fell through as another portal squinted into existence in such a manner that the falling chairs heading through the floor at that first point moved straight forward into the racks as needed. Then she rinsed the coffee machine, aligned the cups, sugar packets, and plastic straws, for the next meeting that evening, walked down the hallway and placed the cleaning supplies back in the closet where Jeremy found them.

Before reaching the door to the street where someone could see her, she moved to the bathroom and found a stall. She closed her eyes and thought of where she needed to be. 

11th street, back alley, under the fire escape, between the dumpsters. 

 She opened her eyes and there sitting within the doorframe was the familiar grime splattered brick wall of the building across the alley from Grayson’s. A fat dumpster fly flew in from the other side as she stepped through as the portal closed, trapping the fly in it’s new home.

Four.

An unending hunger.

Henry wiped at his eyes in his car, folding down his sun visor in front of him revealing his lost family. He looked upon them and smiled genuinely. Slowly, with the utmost reverence, he folded the sunshade up again, taking his family to their final resting place. 

He exhaled a shaky breath. 

Three years since he hit you, he thought, such an awfully long time to miss someone. I still count the days since he took you from me. He was an accountant by nature—constantly counting things that needed, and didn’t, need counting. It’s how he dealt with his weight, his losses, and his gains. 

Henry fumbled with the seatbelt release, having to swing the middle console upwards to get to it properly, and then back down again once he was able to start reeling in the seatbelt.  It often clicked, locking him into place prematurely—until he learned that if he swung the chair all the way back so that he sat low, the belt over his gut he could make it driving around town. 

He arrived at 11th and Kirby about ten minutes ago, and he often repeated this ritual before attempting to get out of the car. At the same time it had made him strong to gain so much weight, it also put immense pressure on his bodies joints—not to mention his heart—and he knew someday it would like be the end for him if he couldn’t change it in some way. He opened the car door, it grated against the cement leaving a scar in the ground as he attempted to roll his way out of his car using the roof as leverage. 

This time he was successful on the first try. 

This day is getting better, he thought to himself. 

He smiled, breathed heavily, and shut the door. 

Taking his rag from his front pocket he wiped at his face and waddled into the store. 

The doors were wide enough for a cart to get through, and he fit easily through them, which he was thankful for.

Henry gathered himself a green plastic basket, black handled, and began to walk around the store. He always went to the bread section first as it was often stocked hourly with fresh loaves of bread. He picked up a challah loaf and put it in his basket. 

1672 calories, he thought to himself. Approximately 17 mile walk to burn it off. 

He walked through the fruits section and grabbed a mango. A personal favorite he grew up with that his mother would cut into cubes for him and give him the skins after as a treat, telling him the skin is the best bit. 

201 calories. 2 more miles to walk to get it done. 

Before long he had a full basket of healthful foods that any trainer would be proud of, and then once he was happy with what he had gathered—he went around the store and put everything back one at a time, until his mile counter reached zero. By the time he had done his laps through the store, which was by no means small, he had walked 3 miles. Then he did it again, taking his time so that his heart wasn’t overloading—remembering his times as a much healthier man. 

507 lbs this morning. Should be 506 tonight, he thought, knowing that there wouldn’t be any difference. 

He sighed as he put the basket back. 

The clerk at Grayson’s who had seen him do this time and time again offered a wave and told him he’d get it next time. 

Henry smiled back at him, but inwardly he knew there was no chance. 

He got back in his car and drove home, his sun visor down, and small tears leaking from his eyes as he made his way back to his apartment. 

He climbed four flights of stairs, much different than the porch he had mortgaged with his wife before their deaths, and made it to his landing. He walked down the hallway, barely missing sidling up against the walls with each step and made his way to his door and opened it. Placing the keys on the counter he passed an empty kitchen. There were no oven nor fridge. Not even a microwave graced the barren room. The was no need for any of them. 

Henry walked into the living room where only three things remained of his previous life. 

His beloved couch, he bought to furnish their first apartment together—that folded out to a reinforced futon. A television so when he felt like it he could watch his shows he and his family had loved. Not to mention family gathering videos where everyone was smiles and no one had distanced themselves from him yet. Third was a scale. Not a normal one—but one you would find at a gym that he knew how to set meticulously to get the actual weight. 

The man who hadn’t eaten anything in 1,053,338 minutes walked up and onto the scale and set its workings into motion. At the end of his calculations Henry looked down at the readout. 508 lbs. He bellowed into the empty room and sank his head.

Five.

Broke, broken, breaking. 

I caught her up on how Henry’s family had been hit by a drunken semi driver. The car was unrecognizable—as were the inhabitants. The driver got forty years for a history of multiple DUI’s and now manslaughter. His life was effectively over as well. 

She stayed quiet while listening to my story. When I was finished I looked over at her and then up at the sky. 

“I think he hopes they’re up there waiting for him, ya know. Like in heaven and shit,” I said. 

She grasps my hand with both of hers. 

The warmth startled me. 

“And what do you think?,” she questioned me. 

Sighing, I responded. 

“What does it matter what I think? I’m already in the middle of killing myself with this stuff and I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know that once you’re toast you’re gone for good as far as I can tell.”

She looked at me and released my hand. First, she looked at the gutter, semi filled with waste water that would likely only drain if the sun stayed out long enough. Then she peered up at the cloudless blue sky and one corner of her mouth rose again. 

“I think he’ll get what he needs. Either to move on and accept what happened, or be with them finally at the end. But then what do I know? I’m just some junkie.”

We both look at each other and laugh. 

“We’re going to need to get some cash if we’re going to party tonight. I know a few places so if you’ll follow me we can set up and I can get us enough for the foreseeable future.” 

She nods. 

We head on over to the Eighth Street Deli, and I buy exactly three scratcher tickets. 

“Bet you can’t guess how much we’re going to win in total from all three?” I offer. 

Milia rolls her eyes. 

“Those things are a scam and you know it. I’m thinking two bucks max.”

I grin and shake my head. 

“I’ma say five hundred. Here—you scratch them off and we’ll see how we do, shall we?” 

She takes the tickets from me and using her nail, painted the same peachy rose as her lips, she scratches off the first ticket. 

“What does it say?”

She shook her head. 

“That can’t be right. You’ve just won two hundred bucks on your first go.”

I nodded. 

“Try the others and tell me the total when you’re done,” I said. 

Milia complied. 

“One-and another two—makes five hundred dollars! How’d you know?!” She asked astonished. 

I smiled widely. 

“Just a knack I have I suppose. That should be under the limit to cash it out in store. Let’s get it sorted. Then I’ll take you to my place and I can get you what you need.”

Milia laid the tickets on the counter. 

The clerk pursed her lips and begrudgingly filed out five hundred dollar bills, taking the tickets with her as she did so.  

“Let’s get going. I’ve got some laundry to do, and then we can head over to Jeremy’s.”

She looked at me amused. 

“Is he ‘your guy?’,” she asked. 

I shook my head. 

No, but he is my friend and you saw how worked up he was today. It’s sorta my job to look after him. Make sure he’s not cleaning himself raw—which he’s done a few times. 

It was her turn to nod. 

“Sounds like a plan, man,” Milia said. 

We headed to my place and I showed her the dingy hallway that lead into my apartment. 

“Do you want to come in and get fixed up while I’m getting ready, or wait out here. It would only be a small one for now to keep you level. But I’m happy to share,” I say

I wasn’t really. My stash had been dwindling quickly lately, but she was a definite hottie and I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to get a quickie if I could while we were both riding. I already knew her answer. Typical junkie behavior. 

“Sure, but only if it’s small enough that I can function. I need to be able walk and talk. I don’t do more than pop diesel at the moment,” Milia offered. 

I nodded. 

“Alright.”

I jam the key into the lock and fidget it open. It wasn’t really locked to begin with but it was nice to know someone playing with the handle couldn’t tell that unless they put some force behind it. 

“Wait out here for a minute while I get my home kit and then we can get settled in while I grab my laundry.” 

The thought echoed off the inside of my mind like a hooligan inside an empty stadium rooting for his team. No response, but yet he kept on yelling “Go, Go, Go, GO!”. 

Milia waited while I gathered my laundry, keeping her waiting—not letting her know how desperate we must both be for the hit. That I was cool about it. Once the laundry had been gathered up in a trolley metal basket with trash bin wheels I had built myself and was proud of if I’m being honest. Rolled easy even on days I was beyond ill. 

I opened the door and showed her in. In one corner there sat a three-seater couch—where I usually watched the television, small by todays standards and low quality, in front of it. Usually, news or the occasional documentary. There stood a stabilized table in between them where I had taped my kit between the drawers on either end so that if you pulled one or the other out you couldn’t see it. Black duct tape was the shit as far as I was concerned. Held like a motherfucker too. The kit was resting on the table for us to use. I had two fresh needles. Getting them was easy. You just went to the building we had come from and exchanged the used tips for new ones after signing your name and taking your photo. I had plenty to spare. My mug was on file. 

“They’re fresh,” I said, “pointing towards to still capped needles.”

Milia nodded, and for a moment I saw a glint in her eye. 

Or at least I thought I did. It was gone before I could take another look. 

“The Hero’s in the foil. Have you spooned before?,” I ask, pointing to the roll of tinfoil as we seat ourselves on the couch. 

Milia nodded appreciatively. 

“Yes, a few times.” 

She laughed fully, and you could see that if she had any dental work it was the pure porcelain kind, the good stuff. She came from money. Or once had it at least, before the H came into her life and took hold.