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ghostinyourshadowCrossposted to morbidaristocracy.
Sam leaned back in the booth. House party. Eyes closed, fingers wrapped around a beer, she listened to the music. Her shoulders were finally unglued from her ears, her grip was relaxed and her eyes were drooping down and unfocused. At the moment, she didn’t even care that no one really paid her any mind. It was exactly what she wanted. She softly sang something under her breath, finding comfort in the words she used to sing on stage. Used to. But she wasn’t bothered by that either right now.
It was a long messed up night and when she closed her eyes, she could still see Edmund, hear Wolf and feel devastated for Ruth. Then there was that suave older guy that acted like he took care of Edmund. As insane vampires go, he probably did need someone to take care of him. Her idea of that would have included a stake through the heart or whatever else would do the trick, except that her hands shook too hard and she was too damn scared to do anything but survive. As her colleagues kept reminding her, she should have done better. What that meant, she wasn't entirely sure. They wanted more information, to understand, and they didn't take kindly to her suggestion that they go and 'fucking do it' themselves. The entity was malicious, they reminded her. And as a result it was their job--her job--to snuff it out. She laughed in their faces. Again, 'then go do it your fucking selves.' This time she waved them off with a choice finger. Whatever.
Sam decided that she didn't like Edmund. Not really. Aside from being certifiably creepy, he also seemed to just know stuff, but that's exactly what freaked her out. Those voices in his head, weren't normal. No shit, right? But it was something more. Something...worse.
Sam jerked rigidly, but shook her head as if was propped up by a wet noodle. She wanted to forget about it. All of it. She wanted to erase it. To make it just stop. She didn’t want to remember falling through the floorboards. She didn’t want to “write a case file”. And, for good measure, she sure as fuck did not want to “debrief” or let Edmund and his fucking demon dog occupy another thought in her already too-terrified-out-of-her-skull mind.
“You sure about this?” Rob asked. Or was it Bob? Bobby? Bo? Sam shrugged.
“I’m just sayin’. Cause this shit? Once is never enough.” He nodded over to a few guys in the corner. Skin and bones and nothing in between. “Don’t wanna end up like that, you know?”
Sam glanced at them with disgust. “Them? They’re fuckin’ junkies man.”
“Pretty sure that Mr. Trust Fund Baby over there wasn’t born with a silver heroine needle buried in his arm.”
Sam felt slighted. Pretty sure they didn't call her Snow White because she was pale. But it was all in control...you know? She wasn't those guys.
“And what do you think you fucking know about me? And what the fuck are you? A drug dealer with a conscience? That's gotta be bad for business.”
Bob, or Billy, or Bo, shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands. “Don’t kill the good samaritan, babe. Like your cigarettes, I come with a warning label. Just this once. You know, so you don’t come after me when you’ve pissed away your life.” He opened the kit and tied the rubber tubing around her arm. Sam turned away, not wanting to witness the shame of her weakness, but unwilling to bet that the joint that she had smoked would give her the oblivion she needed tonight. It was deep in her veins. The need. That need to just make the merry-go-round stop. She looked at the junkies and their empty glassy eyes.
“Wait.” Fuck. “Just…um, I dunno man.” And she didn’t. “Forgot it. Take this shit away.”
He unsnapped the rubber tubing around her arm and got up. “No prob, Snow White. Glad you told me before I started cooking.” Not like there weren’t other willing customers waiting. “Gimmie um,” she said while squirming in her seat. “Just give me whatever I had last week?” No, not blow. Billy Bob was a shit dealer of Cocaine. Whatever fucking filler his provider used to cut that shit with sent her to Bellevue hospital last year in a convulsing, hemorrhaging, psychotic mess. And, as a result, the Betty Ford clinic. Again. That worked about as well as putting a bandaid on severed arm, although it helped propel her band into Revolver Magazine’s Top 5 New Female Fronted Bands article. Otherwise, they had been at number 7. "Yo. As long as it doesn't make me freak the fuck out again. None of that Special K bull either."
“Ah. Yes. Think I got something for you.” He dug into his pocket and brought out a small bag. Diving into it he took out a combo of pills. “Courtesy of Big Pharma and some Russian lab in Brooklyn.” He said putting it in her hand, giving her shoulder a squeeze and walking away. It didn’t matter that he forgot that he spoke to her, she had already dismissed his presence completely. She only had eyes for the drugs that were a means to an end.
Sam eyed the pills first. They were a little damp as if they had been soaked through with something a little extra. "You know. You don’t need to do this anymore." Rolling her eyes, she looked up to give the asshat who’d spoken a piece of her mind, but there was no one there. The voice was her own, it was in her head. She snorted out a desperate laugh.
"Come on. You’ve been brave enough for today".
She quickly downed the pills and followed up with swing of her beer. She eyed the junkies again. They all looked all sorts of fucked up, but they did look peaceful right now. Not a care in the world.
Fuck them, she thought acridly with a short scoff and another sip.
Fuck them. Sam closed her eyes. Her fist unfurled. She sang under her breath and she no longer saw Edmund. There was no decrepit insane asylum or Ruth swirling around in her mind’s eye. No one was telling her that she had to do better, do more, to get with the program. No past lives were invading her waking moments. There was no Collective. No life. There was just nothing.
There was a god, however. And he sold opiates.
Sam leaned back in the booth. House party. Eyes closed, fingers wrapped around a beer, she listened to the music. Her shoulders were finally unglued from her ears, her grip was relaxed and her eyes were drooping down and unfocused. At the moment, she didn’t even care that no one really paid her any mind. It was exactly what she wanted. She softly sang something under her breath, finding comfort in the words she used to sing on stage. Used to. But she wasn’t bothered by that either right now.
It was a long messed up night and when she closed her eyes, she could still see Edmund, hear Wolf and feel devastated for Ruth. Then there was that suave older guy that acted like he took care of Edmund. As insane vampires go, he probably did need someone to take care of him. Her idea of that would have included a stake through the heart or whatever else would do the trick, except that her hands shook too hard and she was too damn scared to do anything but survive. As her colleagues kept reminding her, she should have done better. What that meant, she wasn't entirely sure. They wanted more information, to understand, and they didn't take kindly to her suggestion that they go and 'fucking do it' themselves. The entity was malicious, they reminded her. And as a result it was their job--her job--to snuff it out. She laughed in their faces. Again, 'then go do it your fucking selves.' This time she waved them off with a choice finger. Whatever.
Sam decided that she didn't like Edmund. Not really. Aside from being certifiably creepy, he also seemed to just know stuff, but that's exactly what freaked her out. Those voices in his head, weren't normal. No shit, right? But it was something more. Something...worse.
Sam jerked rigidly, but shook her head as if was propped up by a wet noodle. She wanted to forget about it. All of it. She wanted to erase it. To make it just stop. She didn’t want to remember falling through the floorboards. She didn’t want to “write a case file”. And, for good measure, she sure as fuck did not want to “debrief” or let Edmund and his fucking demon dog occupy another thought in her already too-terrified-out-of-her-skull mind.
“You sure about this?” Rob asked. Or was it Bob? Bobby? Bo? Sam shrugged.
“I’m just sayin’. Cause this shit? Once is never enough.” He nodded over to a few guys in the corner. Skin and bones and nothing in between. “Don’t wanna end up like that, you know?”
Sam glanced at them with disgust. “Them? They’re fuckin’ junkies man.”
“Pretty sure that Mr. Trust Fund Baby over there wasn’t born with a silver heroine needle buried in his arm.”
Sam felt slighted. Pretty sure they didn't call her Snow White because she was pale. But it was all in control...you know? She wasn't those guys.
“And what do you think you fucking know about me? And what the fuck are you? A drug dealer with a conscience? That's gotta be bad for business.”
Bob, or Billy, or Bo, shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands. “Don’t kill the good samaritan, babe. Like your cigarettes, I come with a warning label. Just this once. You know, so you don’t come after me when you’ve pissed away your life.” He opened the kit and tied the rubber tubing around her arm. Sam turned away, not wanting to witness the shame of her weakness, but unwilling to bet that the joint that she had smoked would give her the oblivion she needed tonight. It was deep in her veins. The need. That need to just make the merry-go-round stop. She looked at the junkies and their empty glassy eyes.
“Wait.” Fuck. “Just…um, I dunno man.” And she didn’t. “Forgot it. Take this shit away.”
He unsnapped the rubber tubing around her arm and got up. “No prob, Snow White. Glad you told me before I started cooking.” Not like there weren’t other willing customers waiting. “Gimmie um,” she said while squirming in her seat. “Just give me whatever I had last week?” No, not blow. Billy Bob was a shit dealer of Cocaine. Whatever fucking filler his provider used to cut that shit with sent her to Bellevue hospital last year in a convulsing, hemorrhaging, psychotic mess. And, as a result, the Betty Ford clinic. Again. That worked about as well as putting a bandaid on severed arm, although it helped propel her band into Revolver Magazine’s Top 5 New Female Fronted Bands article. Otherwise, they had been at number 7. "Yo. As long as it doesn't make me freak the fuck out again. None of that Special K bull either."
“Ah. Yes. Think I got something for you.” He dug into his pocket and brought out a small bag. Diving into it he took out a combo of pills. “Courtesy of Big Pharma and some Russian lab in Brooklyn.” He said putting it in her hand, giving her shoulder a squeeze and walking away. It didn’t matter that he forgot that he spoke to her, she had already dismissed his presence completely. She only had eyes for the drugs that were a means to an end.
Sam eyed the pills first. They were a little damp as if they had been soaked through with something a little extra. "You know. You don’t need to do this anymore." Rolling her eyes, she looked up to give the asshat who’d spoken a piece of her mind, but there was no one there. The voice was her own, it was in her head. She snorted out a desperate laugh.
"Come on. You’ve been brave enough for today".
She quickly downed the pills and followed up with swing of her beer. She eyed the junkies again. They all looked all sorts of fucked up, but they did look peaceful right now. Not a care in the world.
Fuck them, she thought acridly with a short scoff and another sip.
Fuck them. Sam closed her eyes. Her fist unfurled. She sang under her breath and she no longer saw Edmund. There was no decrepit insane asylum or Ruth swirling around in her mind’s eye. No one was telling her that she had to do better, do more, to get with the program. No past lives were invading her waking moments. There was no Collective. No life. There was just nothing.
There was a god, however. And he sold opiates.