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John had to admit, he didn’t miss the era of needles. Sure, there was an elegance to them, the sharp pain followed by overwhelming pleasure. But he much preferred gas, or his current choice, the patches. They weren’t cheap, and making sure he got his hands on the non-contaminated batch of Bliss had been hell. But it would all be worth it.
He could have been anywhere: his rarely-used room in the place he’d spent five years spending two weeks, a back room in any of the Vegas Galaxies, a cheap motel in the early twenty-first century. He’d done it before, and he would do it again.
With only an hour to spare, he wasted no time applying the almost innocuous patch of Bliss to his neck. He let out a sigh as it kicked in, flooding his body with the best high this side of the Medusa Cascade. Oh, that was good.
He laid back in his bed, letting his eyes flutter closed and riding the waves of pleasure. No issues, no worries, only Bliss. He spent plenty of his life chasing a high, and it was nice to stop running for a bit. But not for long. No, never long enough.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, he started to twitch. His underlying anxiety, his wariness and defensiveness that every moment of his life had taught him were necessary to survive were creeping back in, cutting through the Bliss. Hell. He couldn’t have anything, could he?
Sluggishly, he sat up and started to rummage through his coat. He had more, another patch that he kept for a rainy day. A shame it seemed like every day was rainy. He pulled it out and regarded it carefully.
He’d heard warnings about doubling-up. But they were never as serious as the horror stories about folk mixing Bliss with Happy or Sleep or that one insane bastard who’d taken Mellow then done a line of coke. He wasn’t that crazy. All he wanted was a top up.
Before his logic could fight off the Bliss and voice its opinion, it was too late. The rush of Bliss was even stronger this time, and he let out a strangled cry as he fell back on the bed. After a few moments of breathing carefully, it settled into a nice mellow high, one that completely suffocated his rising panic. At least, at first.
He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he heard the tapping. Low and steady, a pattern of four hits in sequence. He let out a low groan. He was meant to be left alone, goddamn it. He forced himself to stagger over to the door, ready to give whoever had disturbed him a tongue-lashing.
But when he looked through the peephole, no one was there. The confusion managed to break through the Bliss, bringing worry with it. He’d never been the type to hallucinate, even on his worst trips. Which meant someone had to be there.
The tapping came again. The same pattern, but this time, John realized, it was coming from the window. He made his way over, pulling aside the thick curtains to see nothing. Out the window was only dark, well, as dark as a big city could get. Even stranger, he couldn’t see a single person. Even at this time of night, he should have been able to at least spot someone.
He forced the curtains closed and made his way back to the bed. He was all alone. That was a good thing. No one to disturb him. He laid down, took a deep breath, and the second he closed his eyes, he heard the tapping again.
His pulse started to race, but he refused to sit up or open his eyes again. Nothing was there. If he opened his eyes, nothing would be there. So why bother? He swallowed hard, and tried to chase down the remaining slivers of Bliss still in his system. It couldn’t all be gone already, could it?
Tapping again. Louder, more erratic. It was almost as if what was doing the tapping knew that John was ignoring it, and it didn’t like it. Of course, this just made John ignore it even harder out of spite. If something wanted his attention, there were a lot easier ways to go about it than spooky window tapping.
It got faster, and much harder. It wasn’t so much tapping now as it was banging, each blow threatening to knock the glass out of its frame. He could almost feel the hits, each one making him flinch and sending the vibrations rattling through his bones. Still, John just gritted his teeth and waited. The glass would hold, or it would shatter. Nothing he could do about it.
Then all of a sudden, it stopped. The room was silent, but John still didn’t open his eyes. He did sit up though, slowly, listening for any sign that he wasn’t alone. Nothing but his own breathing.
When he opened his eyes, it was all at once. The room was dark, empty, and quiet. He stood on unsteady feet and made his way to the window yet again. Nothing. But the street was brighter, and across the street, he could see a trio of lovebirds in a small grove of trees. Everything was back to normal, whatever that was.
He peeled the patches off of his neck, leaving the skin disconcertingly sticky. What a waste. It was all a damn waste. Nothing could chase it off, nothing could keep it away. No matter what he did, it would always lurk there, burning under his skin and dragging him under. One day it would succeed.
He sunk to his knees. God, he hated this. He felt dead and empty and just absolutely aimless. And the fact that he might be having a mental break didn’t help one bit. He was almost glad he was alone. No one had to see him like this. Not that he had anyone who would care. Not really.
God, he just wanted to feel good. He wanted to belong, to be loved. And he could never have that. He was far too far gone. He’d lied and he stole and he killed and he never regretted it, but it had stained him. He had sinned, and while he wore that as a badge of honor, sometimes the guilt of it just crushed him. Damn it all to hell, and damn him too.
A knock came at the door and his head snapped up so quickly he was sure he pulled something. Was that real? It came again, and he became more assured of his (relative) continued sanity. He got to his feet, running a hand through his hair and trying to compose himself.
Back to normal. Alone. He plastered a fake grin on his face and opened the door.