On mornings like these it takes a minute to find a rhythm. Kind of an odd thing for a New Yorker, donât you think? It was the kind of place where, even in the darkness of the early morning hours, men still stand on the corners exaggerating about how full their lives are and women cling to greasy children as they wait for the train. Drunks still stand outside of stores even as their shutters block the windows and demand to be catered to. It seemed as if nothing ever really stopped in this place. And yet there Jasper was, his pale figure spread out in the bathroom like a body in a mausoleum. A half hearted loll of his neck as he tried to lift his head; a leg hanging awkwardly over the edge of the empty bathtub in an attempt to stand. Or flop over, at the very least. Try as he might, Jasper couldnât shake the chill running through his body. Not even when he was literally shaking. And while his mind, body, and soul only wanted one thing, the reality of the situation left him essentially paralyzed.
But itâs true what they say about people not surviving in this world without an edge. Even as he felt the flicker of consciousness he had left going on and off, on and off, a muscle spasm, like clockwork, brought his body to a lurching upright position and forced him to suck in a breath. Good. And just when Jasper thought the universe was trying to send him in another direction, his body decides to fight for what it wants. Newly re-energized, he knew it wouldnât be long before he crashed again, a victim of low blood pressure and foolishly thinking five milligrams would net him a few hours of sleep without having to seriously dent his stash. Little bitch Jasper thought, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants before dragging himself over the edge of the bathtub and onto the floor. Five milligrams for Jasper was childâs play. He'd get a better high chugging cold medicine, he knew that, and with his newly found partnership with the youngest Bates, there was no end to the dope trail assuming he played his cards right.
Like any good fiend, Jasper had smack all over the place. Needles stashed under pillows like teeth, filling the space in cabinets where food shouldâve went, and in cracks in the wall like treasure. Or like contraband. Point being, he didnât have to stumble far to find his pride and joy. The best fuck heâd ever received. The warm hug when youâre feeling down, and the love you never got from mom and dad. Jasper grabbed a hold of the sink and through pure determination and anticipation alone, wobbled onto his feet. He let all of his weight lean against the sink as he pulled open the medicine cabinet. Syringes, lighters, shoe strings, surgical tubing, spoons, and that good oleâ white china. Just the sight made his skin itch, and underneath the buzzing, artificial glow of his aging fluorescent lights, he couldnât help but think that this is what heaven must be like.
Like a dog eyeing food, Jasperâs mouth watered at the sight of the powder flowing out from itâs tiny package and onto the beat-up spoon, one of several he kept in each room for ease of access. He struggled for a moment to get a good light. His fingers still shook and he couldnât help but get a little ahead of himself in anticipation of a good high. He was staring at at least a few hours worth - twenty or so milligrams. Once the light caught, he held it under the spoon and watched the solid turn to liquid like some kind of voodoo magic. Transfer the contents of the spoon to the syringe and you're one step closer feeling alive again.
One end of the shoe string between his teeth, Jasper hastily wound the other end around his arm, wrestling with it until his knuckles burned white and his fingers were warm from the friction. Then he tucked the loose end and waited. And waited. Sure, his arms werenât exactly blank canvases. Track marks lined his limbs like grisly constellations. Tattooâs masked his veins, making the search for a good, un-collapsed injection spot something like a game he didnât like to play. Jasper yanked his head back and pulled his arm forward in an attempt to tighten the string. Help the process along. And yet none of those blue and purple lines would pop up.
Fuck me. Fuck this city. Fuck this apartment. Jasper spat the shoelace from his mouth in frustration, a cold wave of realization washing over his body. He yanked the string off of his arm, the braided pattern of itâs stitches engraved in his skin. The combination of anxiety and dope sickness was already starting to send a wave a nausea through his body. Heâd never shoot up if he had to search for a vein and attempt to make sure his vomit landed in the toilet and not on himself. With as much quickness as he could muster, Jasper lowered himself to the ground, falling the last bit of the way. Then he jabbed the syringe right into his jugular, pulling back the plunger to mix the dope with his blood before sending the whole solution coursing into his body. The first second was always the longest. His body was still cold, still trembling, still cursing him to the grave for destroying and betraying himself. And for what? For this? For fevers, and bleeding arms, and uncontrollable emotions, and bone pains and never eating enough?
Exactly this. After all, being a slave to dependence was a small price to pay for a moment of happiness.
âUgh, man,â Jasper whispered to himself, his head gently falling back to rest against the edge of the bathtub, âjust fuck me upâ. Was it a comfortable resting spot? Absolutely not. But at this point, he could literally die and he wouldnât even care. Wouldnât flinch. Wouldnât notice his life was slipping away. All he could think about was the rush of warmth flowing through his body with every beat of his heart, a marked change from the frigid embrace he felt upon waking up. Aside from an itchy feeling where he shot up, Jasper couldnât think of a single thing wrong in his life. Everything was falling into place. Jasper pulled the syringe out of his neck and smiled stupidly at the little device. Who invented them? What was his name? Does he know that in this moment, if no one else really appreciated him, Jasper appreciated the inventor of the syringe? He eventually passed out, affectionately scratching at his injection site and thinking to himself how lucky he was to be together once again with his one true love.
Thereâs no telling how long he had been out. Jasper woke up with his face pressed against the tile, sweaty and sticky, his tongue feeling like sandpaper in his mouth and a headache forming on one side of his head. What he didnât feel, however, was like complete shit. Jasperâs sleepy limbs could be shaken off in no time. His hard worn appearance, on the other hand, couldnât be washed away so easily. He caught the sight of his face in the mirror and ran his hand through his wild hair. Raccoon bags and red-rimmed eyes stared back at him against a deathly white face. Jasper was aware that he looked like a user.
And since he didnât give a fuck, Jasper wasnât pressured to look completely normal when his destination was The Little Lady. His dry mouth was something only liquor could help, and he needed something else to do before he got high again. He splashed some water on his face and ran his hands through his hair. Then Jasper peeled off his clothes and changed into a pair of tight jeans and a oversized shirt he found on the ground. Both black. Both wrinkly and indicating an incredibly lazy individual. But there was something to be said for an addict bothering to change clothes and leave the confines of their house in the first place.
Soon enough he was at the bar, spilling a drink on none other than Senna Z. âShit,â he mumbled, more to himself than her, the hand that spilled the drink still outstretched and his eyes locked onto the stained cotton as if his own body were on a two second delay while everyone else carried on in real time. âMy bad, baby,â he nodded, reaching for some napkins in an attempt to help but settled for a smirk when she seemed content to handle it herself. She insisted it was fine and Jasper left it at that. He grabbed a scotch of his own and scanned the room for easy targets before another big shot caught his attention. Simon. Jasper couldnât help but feel smug after seeing the guy. He wasnât the first person Jasper fucked in exchange for dope. Though he could argue that this case was less whoring himself out and more of an ongoing business transaction.
Speaking of selling himself, Jasper downed his drink and set his sights for a familiar figure standing in the corner. He wouldnât even have to break a sweat, having worked that particular angle in the past. Before he could make a move, though, he heard glass break, words exchange, and turned around just in time to see the show of angry gangsters unfold.