Fix
The relentless searchings of an addict... There is a companion piece to this called 'Little Brother'
This room is open, enormous really, and its cold, my feet already chilling in the frigid air. The walls are crumbling, decrepit shreddings of what I assume was once wall paper clinging desperately to the threads of glue securing them to the surface. There are hundreds of spiderwebs, but they no longer catch flies, just miniature particles of insignificant dust that builds up and up and up until you can't see what the surface beneath it looked like previously. And all of the windows, all three of them, I mean, are painted an eerie opaque black that I'm sure is faded on the outside from the years being beaten by the sun's rays. Those rays, the tiny spikes of autumn daytime hardly more than illuminated pinpricks on the decaying wood of these molding walls. The dampness of the whole atmosphere forsakes a heavy scent of mustiness, one that fills your lungs and suffocates without warning. The odor of stale smoke lingers in the still air, attaching itself to the stagnant, moisture-ridden oxygen, if that's what you can even call it. And underneath it all, if you're brave enough to take a deeper breath, the pungent aroma of urine creeps into your nostrils, overpowering any other smells. It's difficult to gauge where exactly the scent originates from; it's more like it permeates from the very flooring, which is torn and filthy. You can't even identify what color it used to be, yellow maybe?
I'll ignore your presence while I continue in my search of this room. I am looking for something in specific and I won't allow you to interrupt, but you can follow me if you like. Scattered about the room are numerous articles of dirty clothing and garbage and I shove them out of my path impatiently. Papers lie wasted and destroyed on the floor beneath overturned chairs with agonizingly broken limbs and a sagging sofa fills the center of the floor; its cushions are torn and ancient, dust and scum forming a film over the once soft fabric. Dingy pillows and crushed blankets have stuffed themselves within its elderly confines, hiding from prying eyes, just barely peeking out to make sure the coast is clear. I rouse them from their sleep unexpectedly as I look around them for what it is I am missing. I spare a ruined television nothing more than a mere passing glance as I swish passed in my haste to find what I am furiously searching for. It is of course absolutely imperative that I find it.
This whole room whispers of abandonment and it seems tragic to leave it crying for attention, but it is a liar. Its whispers are meaningless and deceitful; you mustn't listen to it one bit. Though this place screams of being forgotten, it is not. This place is where I live. It is my home one might go so far to say, if you believe that home is where you sleep at night. For if that is the case, then this room is most certainly my home, that sofa is my bed and those chairs are my company, well at least before you came. And now I can see the look on your face. You're wondering how I live like this. How do I live in such melancholy rubbish. There is a simple answer, but you must be sure you want to know. You're nodding now. You're so sure you can handle it.
The truth is nothing so exciting that this room withholds. It is my life, the one I live every day and it is of my own choosing. I have made my bed and sleep in it, as the saying goes. I am still searching as I tell you this in a voice that's old and used beyond repair just like this room. And finally I lay my shaking hands upon it, the important object that I need. It was pressed in between the sofa's crevices, playing hide and seek even though it knew just how much I was needing it. And the shakes are the worst bit, like insects crawling under your skin, I might explain if I were not in such a rush. And I spare you no more than a flash of my hysterical, glassy eyes, you understand I hope. I could not care less about the state of which my room is in or just what you think about it, not as long as this syringe slips into my skin and the sticky sweetness of its liquid slithers beneath my flesh and through my blood like rain into a sewage vent. This is how my life is and now you know the truth. I am long gone from reality before you ever leave. I don't even hear the door as you close it on your way out. You couldn't handle it after all, I guess.
Copy-written to Xander Bradeshaw.