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Snippet #2524820

located in A small midwestern town, a part of Dead Nation, one of the many universes on RPG.

A small midwestern town



Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Jim Samson Character Portrait: Rachael "Ray" Nicole Sherman.
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"And if you save yourself, then you will make him happy!
"He'll keep you in a jar, and you will think you're happy!"

The radio screamed at its highest notch, which wasn't too loud... Not loud enough that you couldn't think, which wasn't loud enough for Rachael. She sighed. What was she doing... Driving a day off her route for what? She was an addict. A statistic. Her dad's words echoed in her head. 'You think those things in your face make you attractive? Slut. Junkie. Institutionalized. Institutionalized. Institutionalized.' It wasn't an echo. She just heard it as clear as day. Over the music, repeating itself, each time digging further into her mind, breaking the walls she'd built against her insecurities. She amused herself. Insecurities. That's what she called them, because voices made her feel crazy. And that's not what she was, she was a person. A person beneath... All this. She had been beaten and tormented her whole life... A never ending nightmare. She couldn't deal with it. Who could? Who could just face the things she'd been subjected to? No one. So she needed a little help, that was all. She needed it... She did. Tears started to blur her eyes. She was lying to herself. She knew it. She was in a hole that she would never be able to get out of. A tear fell down her cheek, she wiped it away and continued driving. Driving once again to deal with the devil.

She pulled in front of the small house. It had a porch with an in table on it, and its exterior was painted a bright (albeit chipped) sea foam. A tree rested in its yard with a ripped down fence dividing it from the house on its left, while the fence on the right remained intact. The lawn was unkept, and a broken swing hung from the old, leafless tree.

[center]She stepped out of the car, looking around as she locked the door to her Rabbit GTI and slammed it shut. She was wearing a black beanie, combat boots, khaki cargo pants, and a leather vest with a hoodie underneath. Her outfit was in disarray but she didn't care. She never did. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her hoodie pocket and pulled out one, stuck it between her lips, and ignited the end with her lighter. Slowly she approached the house, stopping at the run-down deck. It was missing boards, and the ones that it possessed were creaky and shifted easily. She stepped onto the deck, avoiding the square holes dotted around. She opened the screen door, creaking, she could hear dogs barking loudly in the background. And then there was a loud, young, but still masculine voice with more gravel than her own. "Shut your fucking mouths!" His sentence was interrupted by exertion and a cage raddled heavily. The door swung open and a tall, admittedly handsome... In a way... Not Rachael's way, man with blonde hair and green eyes opened. His hair was short, and he wore an open flannel and cargo shorts.

"Hey. Nicole, right?" His voice was friendly, but half-efforted in the same light.
"Nikki." She said, her voice feminine but on the lower end of the feminine spectrum, gravely and cracky from years of smoking.
The man looked at her for a moment before stepping back;
"Uhh, come in. Make yourself at home."
She complied, stepping in and looking around, her hands in her pockets.
The house was run down on the inside and out. Two dog cages in the corner, a kitchen with no dividing walls except for the countertop which cut it off from the living room, which composed the bulk of the house, a large pillar of drywall in the center, and a hallway leading out to the back, where she could see it opened to two rooms. Both of which were closed.
"So... How much are you looking for?"
"Half a gram."
"That all? You sure?"
He was leaned, both hands on the counter that seperated the two rooms, she was standing just barely in front of the doorway.
"How much money y'got?"
She pulled her wallet from her back pocket and clicked the snap open, pulling out one ten and two twenties.
He looked at the money.
"That's not enough. I only deal in increments of one."
"You were okay with it a mo-... What do you mean?"
"Buy a gram, two grams, three..."
"I don't have enough."
"Well'at really sucks." He added a short chuckle at the end.

There was a silence in the room, broken only by what sounded like a smaller dog in one of the back rooms, yelping and barely audible. Her eyes met his for only a split second, but that's all it took.

"You know, that's not all you have."

She sighed.

Fifteen minutes later.

She dipped her head below the bathroom faucet, dipping her head below the nozzle and spraying the inside of her mouth with water, gurgling, rinsing, repeating. She did this for over ten minutes. Every time feeling worse than the last. She couldn't deal with herself.

It was all his fault. 'Shut up, Nicole. He forced you into nothing. Whore.' The voice sounded so much like her father... She began to cry, her vest and hoodie soaked from the water. He probably heard her. She threw the door open and bee lined for the door, grabbing the small blue bag on the way out, never leaving her money. She ran down the yard, jumped into her car and jammed the keys in the ignition, speeding down the road. She couldn't take this. She couldn't. She pulled to the side of the road next to a convenience store.


She unraveled the twistie at the top of the bag, revealing a brownish colored substance inside. She frowned. It was tar heroin, ughh. She pulled from her jacket what looked like a zippo lighter. It wasn't, she opened it and dumped the heroin into it, making sure not to spill a single flake. She then dropped the baggie and drew another lighter, a disposable, and set it on the dashboard. She opened the glove compartment. Behind a few old papers, there was a needle, a metal cooking cup blackened from smoke, and a spoon inside. She took her vest off and her hoodie, putting on an old shirt she found in the back seat. She tied the sleeve of the hoodie around her arm, grabbed the spoon and poured out a tiny few flakes, closing the fake zippo afterwards. She sighed, grabbing a canteen from the floor boards of her passenger seat and the cup with the same hand. She set the cup between the seats and poured the brown powder in, followed by a bit of water. She shook the cup around, watching it fail to settle properly.

"Fucking tar..."

She lifted the cup and grabbed her lighter, igniting it and setting the flame against the bottom. She hated heating it.
When it was thoroughly heated, she threw the lighter into the back seat and poured the hot, black liquid into the spoon, carefully not missing a drop. Leaving the shit at the bottom of the cup. She wasn't desperate enough to inject that. Yet.

She picked up the needle, shaking with anticipation. She steadied herself, and dipped the bevel into the black liquid... The perforation bending the surface of the otherwise flat black plain. She used her thumb and pulled back the plunger, and watched with dire closeness as the level of maroon, black liquid rose up the barrel of the needle. She set the spoon down, and reoriented the needle in her hand. The tourniquet had worked by now, her veins bulging out of her arm. She laid her right hand straight, with her right leg bent and on the seat, and her left arm hovered over her radial vein. Here goes Alice, down the rabbit hole. She slowly drew closer, the vein finally making contact with her skin, pushing it back before giving way, and returning flat alongside the needle. She slowly rested her thumb against the end of the needle and pushed down. The liquid emptying into her body. She pulled the needle out and tossed it into the passenger seat just in time for her skin to chill, and then warm. Her brain felt a cool hand grasp it, and then super heat it with... Emotion. It maintained its grasp, letting its contentment flow into her. Her senses died, but her mind was never more alive. She wasn't a junkie, or a slut... She was a goddess. And she was kissing the face of the maker himself. Chills of euphoria echoed through her body. for fifteen minutes, she sat back, resting with a dull expression on her face, saliva draining from the corner of her mouth, tourniquet still around her arm. She was suddenly aware. The hand began to pull away, its fingertips raking her brain in a desperate attempt to stay. It wanted her. And she wanted it. She sat in her car. Hating herself. Junkie. Slut. Institutionalized.

[center]She looked to her left, across the street four bloody people banged on the door of a general store.