Levity

The price may have risen, but that's not reflected in the seller. His nails look even more rotten than before, thick grey grime underneath them. “I'm keeping with the demand Princess.” He taunts, knowing there is no chance I am walking away from this deal. My body is already on edge, tension thick down my legs, the need making my hands taut. I am all apprehension, have been since I hopped off that bus. I need this, there's no way I can leave.

I scrabble through the notes in my back pocket, forcing them into his hand. He pulls them up into the light instantly, checks over as if they're counterfeit. “It's real.” I spit, my distaste for him growing by the second. He is purposefully slowing this down, making me wait in some pathetic attempt to exude power. “Give it to me.”

He vanishes into the kitchen for a moment. No doubt speaking to the man who acts as his boss. I don't care, my foot is tapping and my heart is in my throat. I need this, it had been longer than usual, nine days since I had last managed to sneak away. But Wade was covering for me, this one last time he had promised. It wouldn't be, he'd keep helping me. He was stupid enough to. Or kind enough, I was never sure.

“Boss says the back bedroom is free.” I hadn't even noticed the man reappear. The only thing on him that seemed undamaged are his teeth, they're perfectly straight, a white that clashes with his bloodshot eyes. “I guess you're staying 'round, eh? I know you don't want who-ever-it-is knowing what you're up too.” He retracts the equipment as soon as I move, “Ah, ah, ah, how about a kiss first? I'm doing you a favour here, talked the boss down from additional forms of payment.” He grins, and I drive my foot as hard as I can into his shin.

I'm sure it hurts me more than it does him, but he relinquishes what I need and I tread the familiar path upstairs, ignoring the noise coming from the rooms I pass. It's easy enough to do when I'm holding what I need. The shame will come afterwards, when the high has faded and the lethargy sinks in. That's when I will feel vile, dirty and disgusting.

Every time I promise myself that's it. I'm done. If Jack were to find out...

Jack must know, however dazed I am that is obvious. There is no chance he hasn't worked it out, as busy and wrapped up in increasingly dangerous schemes as he is. I am hiding it well, I can pride myself on that, I'm making sure I eat, I'm cleaning myself. I'm hiding it but I will never outsmart him, not for a second.

If he knows I'm doing this he doesn't care. Is that freedom or punishment?

I slam the door shut, huddling with the pieces wrapped in cloth until finally the needle is in the crook of my arm and warmth fills me.

Jack is away for a week. He takes Wade with him, an unheard of length of time. We're in a house, a nice house, and one where the residents certainly won't be coming back. I have a fake ID, Wade has three. We pay bills.

I should be happy.

I last three days before I go back. The price has gone up again, but I have a handbag crammed full of crumpled notes. I sink lower with every passing minute and cannot stop myself. I'm fairly sure at one point that I've actually overdosed and am only scared of that fact that this does not frighten me. But I don't die, I feel like death but I don't die. When I'm somewhat rational, it's obvious there is no sense of time. How much of it has passed? It's dark through the window. There are several short raps on the door which send my heart into my sternum and rattle my brain, a bobble-head doll.

I scramble up, each limb feels completely deprived of blood and I am woozy. More than woozy, I can barely stand, and the bed is across the room. How had I gotten to the window? I was damned sure I had started on the bed. I couldn't even remember the high.

Shame stabs, a constant companion now and I just about make it, half knelt and blinking hard to force the double vision away when the door opens and a body enters. I'd been expecting the creep from downstairs, peddling more drugs, demanding money, or worse. Not worse, I shake that away, I could not fight off worse.

It isn't him. The stranger looks cautious, smart clothes worn in a messy fashion, dark hair that matches.

He drapes himself along the edge of the bed, fussing over some ancient stain. The frown only deepens as his eyes scan over the remainder of the room, he seems to be avoiding me. I'm unsure if this is for his benefit or my own. “I hadn't realised how much of a state this place was.” The words are hummed, his voice is slow. “The intention was to have a safe house, I suppose.” Long fingers rub together, a nervous habit I guess. “I understand the compound can become extremely addictive, I was hoping that providing a safe place for it to be used in such an event would...” He allows himself to look properly at me now, and I can't stop myself running a hand through my hair, pushing it back behind an ear. I can imagine how I look.

His eyes are such a startling shade of blue up close.

“I'm sorry. You're probably not feeling up to this conversation.” One of his hands lifts, and, testing my reaction slowly clasps my own, moving to feel my pulse. He is cold. “When was the last time you...” It looks as if the words are a poison that cannot be swallowed. I can only shrug, time has left me behind. That hum again, and knowing I am placid he moves and stares deeply into my eyes, it takes a moment to realise he is checking my pupils. Happy, he instead ends up prodding the inside of my elbows, the circular bruise left just above. The elastic was somewhere on the floor.

“There was never any intention of it becoming additive,” He explains, the pad of his thumb smooth, a learned man, not used to labour. “But of course, we as a species crave contentedness, happiness...”

He speaks on in this way for several minutes, much of what he says going over my head. But I catch the drift within the fog. The drug, his 'compound' tricks the brain into thinking it is happy, releases those endorphins I remembered vaguely from a biology lesson. No surprise there, drugs affect your brain, big shocker.

“You must have other things that make you happy.” It's not a question, it is an assumption. I nod, not sure if it's honest. What does make me happy? Jack, most of the time, sometimes. “Then I suggest you go back to that, whoever it may be.” I nod once again. “You're much too young to be caught up in any of this.”

“You don't seem that much older.” My voice is a crackling whisper, a log on a fire but he hears, half smiles. “It speaks.”

Malice is missing, amusement in its familiar place. “Are you able to get home? I can call you a cab?”

“I'm fine.” I try to stand, prove my point and end this odd meeting, but the foot resting beneath me is riddled with painful prickles and I stumble, those large hands catching me. “Careful,” I repeat my earlier phrase and the frown comes back. “You're quite clearly not fine.” He forces me to sit, “How long have you been in here?” Again the prodding starts. “I'm not that sort of doctor...” He catches himself, and there's a tiny smile that shows his teeth for the first time, “Well, I'm not any sort of doctor at the moment, soon.”

“You're the sort of doctor who makes drugs.” The embarrassment is twisting in my stomach, he's an easy target. The best target there ever could be. Jack gave me the drugs but he was the source. He was the maker, the chemist.

“Not drugs.” The grip on my arm tightens, reflex. “I'm a psychologist. I have a position at Arkham Asylum. I wanted to... I aimed to create something that would allow patients with severe trauma or mental illness to have a way of...” he sighs, “I wanted to avoid sedatives, some people spend their days lost in themselves. I wanted to break that....” Whatever else he wishes to say he doesn't. Instead, he starts going on about chemicals again, compounds and terms that he must know won't sink in.

He made the drug to make crazy people feel happy. Is my whole life ruled, ruined, by such an innocent thought?

I don't buy it, don't trust something about him. But that doesn't stop me coming back, accepting more. It's a few months of a new routine, sneaking some at 'home', coming here at least once a week. I find the time. Jonathan plays with his formula, he makes it better, more concise. Without realising, or caring, I become his guinea pig. The effects last longer, the come-down less painful. He shows me how to mix it with something else, a name with so many syllables I don't bother to learn it. Mix the two and you're having the best half an hour of your life.

I ruin all of it by speaking too much.

I spill.

It's unintentional, and far too late before I realise that Jack's finger is not the only one I am wrapped around. Jonathan has me too.

Fear can be divided into two stages, biochemical and emotional. The biochemical side of it is the one we all know, hear repeated on every nature documentary or shitty police drama. This is flight or fight. Do we run away from the threat or face it head on? A chemical trigger, that rushes through our bloodstream and releases about thirty others, prepping us to survive.

The emotional element of it all is personal. Whatever terrifies you most will differ from the next person. The effect on the body is the same, you still can't control it. But you can overcome it if you're brave enough. Or you can crumble, be fearful or fear itself. This was where Jonathon came in. Jonathon and those funny blue flowers.