The Boy With the Birds

"Please, Ronnie, I need this. I'll get you the money next week, you know I'm good for it." I pled, chasing after my friend Ronnie Bruntley. He huffed on his cigarette thoughtfully, seemingly ignoring me. I tugged on his bomber jacket sleeve with dirtied hands, which he gingerly pulled away from.

"Where are you going to get that money, exactly, Seph?" He puts his hands on his hips, exerting his chest a bit, the way a rooster might do to assert his authority. His cigarette hangs from his lips, the fading embers glowing a dull shade of Vermillion.

I huffed in irritation, hating how he stared down at me with the fond eyes an older sibling might have. Ever since we'd met each other, he tucked me under his wing of protection, but even our close relationship was not enough to always get me some free needles. He'd occasionally cut me discounts and crap like that, but they were never free.

"If I have to sleep around for it, I will. I'll pay you back, Ronnie, I promise."

"I know you will, darling." He reaches out, and strokes my cheek with a small smile on his lips. "But you're too pretty to waste your face like that."

"You're giving me no choice."

"You have a choice." He disagreed, then smiled sarcastically. "Get a job and pay for your drugs the right way."

"No job will take me!" I cried after him, my heart racing, my stomach aching. "I need the drugs. I can't go without them now. Please, Ronnie."

"I'll give you half off... This one time. This is the last time, Seph." His startling hazel eyes settled on my face with such intensity I had to look away.

"Okay, okay." I hung my head like a kicked puppy, "Thanks, Ronnie. I'll pay you as soon as I make some cash."

He nods, and pulls out a Ziplock bag containing what I could call 'my heaven'. Inside is two needles, a silver spoon, a wad of cotton, a vial of water, and a dented silver Zippo lighter. He holds it out to me, and I enclose it in my shaking hands carefully, cautious not to drop it or lose it in the small exchange. Just then, my stomach growls loudly.

"Was that you?" He asks, his face contorting in amusement.

"Yeah..." I shrug, looking at him sheepishly, kicking the toe of my of my heeled short boots against the grimy cobblestone of the alleyway behind the Chowder Jones restaurant near the pier.

"When did you last eat?"

I squint in concentration, trying to pull a distinct memory from my hazy mind, they all bleed together these days. "Three days ago?... I think."

He frowns at me in disapproval, crossing his thick arms across his barrel chest. "So you won't buy yourself some food, but you'll buy luxury drugs?"

"I didn't choose this life for myself, Ron." I glared at him, putting the bag safely away in the pocket of my torn army fatigue jacket, a relic that didn't even belong to me, just something I'd picked off a dead drug addict in an alley a few weeks back. "I'd give it up if I could, but it's much harder than I would have imagined."

He sighs, "I'd give you some cash to get yourself something, but I know you won't eat."

"Ron, I can't, I- I've got to go."

"Visit me sometime." His smile becomes smug, and I know what he means. We joke like this pretty frequently, but recently, his advances have grown more persistent.

"I will," I reply hurriedly, not really thinking about it. "I'll see you later." I began walking away, tugging down the short rain-soaked dress I wore. The wind whipped through the cramped alleyway, tossing pieces of trash across the uneven cobblestone. I cross my arms to make up for the lack of a zipper on my jacket and push against the cold autumn air and make my way home.

'Home' is a loosely used word, here. Home to me, is the sweat-stained blue mattress lying haphazardly underneath some mill equipment near the warehouses and docks in the Projects. A tiny, dirty blotch in northern Seattle. This place is a stain itself. Many homeless, hopeless people live here, including me.

My name is September Anne Wright, but these days everyone knows me by two names... Seph, or 'funhouse'. My body is a place of ruins, I suppose... Scars adorn my skin from years of assorted abuse I got out of, only to fall into something worse. It's called a funhouse because of how much entertainment my assorted partners get from it. I zone out for a while, let them do their thing, and then I come back to reality, I dress myself, and make my way back home. It's a sad life, but it's the only one I've got to work with.

It's not a great life by any means, but I'm alive, at least. Many people don't get that luxury, especially not after the bio-terrorists made their way to Seattle. They brought with them destruction and pain... And the D.U.P. They burned down buildings and killed people in the streets. I made a run for my life around that time, and I fell into this life. I was already having trouble at home with my Mom, so the time was right to fake my death and disappear entirely.

I shake my head as though it'll be enough to rid me of the memory of my Mother reaching for me in the chaos as I twisted free from her grip to run head-first into the crumbling remains of an apartment coming down on top of me. I knew what I left her with, and I could never bring myself to go back and see her now, even if things were different this time. Her September has died as far as she knows. It'd be cruel for me to come back in her image, a soiled, broken waste of the daughter she loved dearly. It'd break her heart more than if I just let her live with the pain of loss.

I look ahead, and over the low rise of decrepit buildings, I can see the mill equipment rising out of a bank of fog and abandoned warehouses with broken windows. It's a graveyard here.

I quicken my pace to get out of the rain. I keep my head down, stowed away under the thin hood that doesn't do much to block out the oncoming pelting of moisture.

Around a building I go, spotting my version of home sweet home tucked away in the center of a small loading-dock space. At the center of this little concrete clearing is some rust-pocked machinery with some sun-bleached tarps tied to it in a half-hearted attempt to keep the rain out.

I pull back the flap of the tarp and slip inside, not wasting any time sitting down on the lumpy mattress and pulling the bag from my pocket, though not without quickly looking around myself first to be sure I am alone.

I begin the familiar process with shaking hands. I crush up the drugs, and carefully fill the spoon with a capful of water from the small vial. I heat the mixture up over the lighter, feeling it's dull warmth spread across my face as I stare into its glow, all while almost dropping it twice from excitement and nerves, which I can't afford to do. My heart is beating rapidly, a steady reminder to myself not to fuck it up. If I mess it up, Ronnie would definitely not give me a replacement.

When the dark mixture starts to boil with murky colored bubbles, I stick the wad of cotton in and it sucks up the discolored water immediately, almost replicating a dirty bath sponge. I stare at it for a moment, hesitating and thinking that maybe I don't need it... Before quickly discarding that thought, and reaching for the syringe with the needle.

I hold my breath while I pull back the plunger, watching the filtered brown water traveling up the needle into the vial. My pale green eyes follow the liquid up the vial as it fills. I flick the needle and set it aside while I reach over and grab a battered black leather belt and tie it tightly around my forearm, checking twice to make sure I got it tight enough.

My hands are shaking so bad, and I feel really lightheaded. Probably from not eating anything... My body can't really handle food, anymore. It's odd how these last few months I've unknowingly trained my body to go without and to operate on the bare minimum.

I grind my teeth together as I insert the needle, pushing it deeper into my skin, poking it into my vein. I hold the plunger in one hand, steadily pushing it down, breathing deep even breaths until it's empty. Slowly, I pull it out and toss the spent needle aside before lying down on my side, and undoing the belt.

I feel a cold, numb rush spreading up my arm, consuming my limb until it spread out across my body. I feel the dull tickle as it trails across my limbs. My lids feel heavy, and my breathing deepens as I become more relaxed.

Soon, I feel like I am floating somewhere above my body in sweet bliss. I think I'm smiling, but I can't quite feel my face. My eyelids flutter, and I close my eyes. I drift into unconsciousness, glad to have the jittery, on-edge feeling slowly leaving my system.