The track marks on his arms are black and vicious and staring, blatant against his pale skin. He is beautiful and he is broken and his red lips are open, a trail of saliva working its way down his chin and his eyes fluttering closed as he passes out.
Beside him another man leans his head on his shoulder, this one with brown hair and quiet blue eyes that speak of poetry. Do you want some, he says, offering me a needle, offering me his need.
I nearly choke. No. I say softly, and my voice echoes in the room and everyone looks up and everyone laughs and everyone is melting, melting. I don’t know why I’m here.
He touches me on the arm. Justin. He says, pulls me down beside him. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here, Justin.
Neither should you, I point out.
Look at you, all dressed up. He says, stroking my t-shirt, looking admirably at my cargos. So nice. He looks at me with eyes made of sky-colored heroin and says, Justin, you shouldn’t be here.
Josh, come back with me. I say and my voice is pleading, cracking like a little boy’s and the blond stirs beside him. I use his real name because this is not JC; this is not JC. Josh, we can get you help, we can—
Don’t want help. He says, his hand falling away. Don’t need it. He brushes his fingers over the blond’s powdery jaw, tenderly wipes the drool away. Got Lance. Got smack. Got life.
I can’t help myself. Not for long, I mumble darkly and glare at the ugly tracks that scar his forearms.
Lance’s eyes flutter open. What the fuck are you doing here? He asks. Give me the fucking needle, he says to Josh. Give me the fucking alcohol.
You’ve had enough, we’re trying to come down, Lance, Josh says and his voice is betrayed and his eyes are wet. Aren’t we trying to come down?
No. Lance reaches over Josh, takes the bottle from the ground. Addressing me: what the fuck are you doing here?
I shift nervously under his doped-up glare. Came to see you, I mutter. I wanted to see you.
Why? He challenges. What is there to see?
My friends.
Friends. He laughs. We’re not your fucking friends anymore. Not anymore. Fuck, Justin.
Uncertain, I say, but I want to help you. I want to help you, Lance, Josh. I’ve always wanted to... still be your friend. I always believed in you. In us.
Help us? Lance asks, and laughs again, a crazed and desperate laugh. You could have helped us before. It’s too fucking late now, Justin. It’s too fucking late.
No, I say, desperate now too. No, it’s not, Lance, I can help. We can get you help. We can get through this.
What is there to get through? His smile is wide and disarming and hungry. No, you can’t help us now, Justin.
Josh, I say helplessly, looking to the brunette, who smiles as well.
We’re just junkies, he says. We don’t need any help, can’t get any help, we’re just junkies, Justin.
No, you’re not, you’re more, you know it, remember how it used to be—
His sigh is tattered. I’m just a fucking junkie, Justin. Used to be doesn’t matter anymore.
Lance offers me the needle. Wanna be a junkie, Justin? He cackles. Wanna be a fucking junkie like us?