He blinked into the night. His ceiling’s blue blending into the sky outside. Street lamps illuminated the little one-way lane outside his shoddy apartment. He’d gotten the place dirt cheap because of all the traffic that passed by. His apartment windows made sure that he would wake up at five a.m. every Friday, at waste collection, and six every other day, when the traffic picked up. He stared at his ceiling.
Do I need to get up? That might have just been a mistake, the wrong door. They probably wanted the Chinese guy down the hall, not me.
He was pretty sure that someone was cooking up some sort of designer drug in there. That or the new Asian transfer had a lot of friends who stopped by at one in the morning. Speaking of which…
It’s three a.m.?
He squinted at the clock by his bed. Then he stopped and looked back at his ceiling.
Nope. No one calling.
Cool silence filled his apartment. Yes, tomorrow he had to get into the office at nine a.m.
“Joe, open this door you lazy fart!”
He looked at the clock. It still said three. He looked at the ceiling.
I’m already awake, aren’t I?
The door opened and filling the dark living space with a shaft of golden light. A silhouette cut out from it, like a cookie from dough, stretched over the dull, brown rug.
Joe blinked into the light. “It’s three. You better have an immensely good reason.”
“Not going to let me in otherwise?” His kid brother grinned back at him.
Cheeky little twat.
He’d heard neither high nor hide of the young man for six months. Six months of no communication gave one quite the imagination for what would possibly be. He didn’t like that it ranged from his brother finally buckling down to having to check all the bodies of water. He’d checked every puddle anyway.
He looked at his brother. Unhealthy pallor and bloodshot eyes spoke volumes. Ratty jeans worn through in the knees and frayed at the ankles were a fashion trend, but Joe knew more. They were old, but not that old. The kid didn’t run out of money until recently. The material in those was somewhat durable, under the proper conditions. That pair must have been no more than three months old. They wouldn’t last any longer in a constant state of wear and tear. Beaten up sneakers with dried crust on the heels were next. He didn’t read too much into it. He didn’t want to know. The sneakers were falling apart on his brother’s feet. The heel toe was all but ripped off on one. He looked up. His brother did have bright red hair now, un-gelled. He thought back to the brown- haired-brown-eyed clone from his childhood. Where was that boy now? His brother’s hands shook like autumn leaves, or a small animal. There was that canny look in his eyes.
Scared or falling off the high?
“You know the rules.” He didn’t’ want to enforce them. That was the unspoken word between them, the wall that divided them into separate camps. He’d tried crossing that wall, but the tunnels either collapsed on his head, or he was shot out of the sky. He always hoped every time his brother got to his door, feet dragging and head aching, that it would be the end. That day would end the nameless faces and places.
The young man jerked the limp body by his side. “I need you to take care of my buddy here.”
Joe gave the second man a once over.
“Get him to a hospital.”
His brother glared at him.
“You’re a doctor.”
Don’t make that face.
“I’m a neurology student.”
I’m not going to do this.
“He’s gonna drown in his own vomit.”
The man made an effort to speak, but he sounded more like a dying sheep than a coherent person.
I have something much more important.
“Then, take him to a hospital,” Joe replied.
You know.
His brother grimaced.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Then, you don’t need me.”
Please.
“Come on! Never again.”
Never again?
“Like last time’s never again?”
He didn’t want to say that. He wanted to pull those words back.
But, that won’t do anything.
His bother scowled. His face contorted into a snarl. Then, he bit down and gritted his teeth.
Because, we’ll never work together to end this.
“Are you still sore?” his bother asked, staring at the ground.
No.
Joe let go of his door frame.
“Get the addict on my couch. There’s a trash bin to the right of the desk.”
I’m just frustrated.
“Thanks, bro.”
His bother hauled the man onto the couch. The semiconscious bag of muscle groaned as he was unceremoniously dropped onto the cushions.
At myself.
His brother brushed off his hands and turned to Joe.
“I have his things in my car.”
Joe watched his brother’s retreating figure.
“You’re not going to come back, are you?”
For not making you stay.
“Just clean him up.”
“Water.”
Joe glanced up from his book, Don Juan, to the man on his couch. They hadn’t spoken a word all night. Joe would grab a bowl or trash can when required and the addict would use it.
There was no need for words.
“Here,” he handed the man a bottle of water.
The man reached for it, sitting up in the process. Joe’s hand snaked out to support the stranger’s efforts.
“Don’t try to sit up quickly. It’ll only make it worse.” The man grimaced, but relaxed feeling Joe’s hand.
“Thanks.” He drank deeply from the bottle of water.
Joe watched, mildly amused, and smiled, despite himself. “You tried to go it alone?”
“Yeah, bloody brilliant idea.” The man’s chuckle was softer than Joe expected.
Joe sighed. “Well, you’re on drops, right? Backlash gets you really bad the first forty-eight.”
The man nodded a curious look in his eyes. He sized Joe up and approved.
“Tom.”
