His jittery fingers clutch at the edges of the cool porcelain. He isn’t even sure what he’s throwing up because it all comes out in this swampy-green, liquid bile. Maybe it was the black coffee, merged with the Mars bar he’d begrudgingly chomped down on a few hours ago after his mother raised concerns about him not eating breakfast. Withdrawals suck ass. He can’t even keep a measly chocolate bar down anymore. With every passing second he can feel his muscles ache more, above the tremble of bones that always feel paper thin. This is hell. No. It’s worse than that. He suddenly regrets selling the last of his substances to that hobo down at the pond. His mind warps itself into believing he needs to pack his system with something — something stronger than weed, stronger than alcohol. He needs the contents of that bag back.
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Needs it.
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Needs it.
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NEEDS IT.
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He feels like a corpse when he stands, looks like one too. The mirror only mocks him lately. He used to be stunning. Smooth skin, colour in his face, life in his eyes, but now they’re weighed down by dark circles and he’s lost the olive complexion in his skin. It’s pale and blotchy now. His hair is also wispy and frail. It’s evident in the way the strands fall loose as he rakes his fingers through them. He lifts his sweater and cringes at the sight of his ribs. They poke out through flaky, bruised skin and allude to the thought that he may be slowly decaying. Slowly dying.
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But he is almost three days sober. He can do this. Except he’s not sure that he can. He looks in the mirror and cries silently for five minutes, then he wipes a drooping sleeve over swollen eyes, and prepares to put on an act.
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He’s fine. He’s getting better. That’s what he’ll let everybody believe, anyway.
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