Vincent

Chapter 7

[This is a given at this point but: content warning for drug addiction]

Vincent often found himself gasping awake in the dead of night in a cold sweat, head spinning and lungs heaving. He would have to quickly rush to the nearest sink or the bathroom to vomit, violently shivering as his stomach emptied itself. He was growing thinner, hardly able to focus on a single subject anymore. The only thing that seemed to ground him anymore was the feeling of inflicting pain on others, whether it be psychological or physical damage. But despite all that, the person he was hurting the most was himself.

Deep down, he knew he needed to stop. He knew it was killing him. That didn't stop him, though. If anything, it only made it worse. Vincent enjoyed feeling as though he could die at any second, death gripping at his shoulders. It was like the Grim Reaper himself was on the brink of pulling him under and never letting him back up again. And Vincent enjoyed every second of it.

That's what he wanted to believe, anyway. The splitting feeling in his head and stomach caused Vincent so much pain he could hardly think of anything else. He stumbled through the motel room, crashing into walls and counters as he wandered back into the front room only to collapse on the floor again.

Another high. Kill one more. Come back home and relapse. Repeat. The cycle didn't want to end. Vincent didn't want it to end either.

So he lay there on the floor, covered in sweat and blood, laughing his head off. It wasn't a laugh of joy, no. There was always pain laced in his actions. What felt like hours had been mere minutes, yet a day lasted only seconds. Then two more led to nearly a week. When he finally came to, Vincent struggled to push himself back up. He stumbled over the kitchen counter, breaking a glass as he failed to catch his balance. Pulling himself up to the sink, he turned on the faucet to splash his face with water.

Still swaying, Vincent clung to the wall as he slowly made his way to the shower. He struggled to turn the water on without slipping and sat on the floor, fully clothed with the cold water running over him. If it weren't for the throbbing pain behind his eyes, he could've passed out sitting there in the shower with the lights off.

Even when he was fully conscious, Vincent was never sure if he was still awake or not, let alone sober. There was seldom a moment that Vincent was even remotely clean, always having something in his system, whether it be a hallucinogenic or antidepressant, and on the rare occasion he could get his hands on it, alcohol. He constantly smelled of cigarette smoke and decaying blood, especially his breath.

If the water weren't already cold, he would have already run out of hot water. It was only when police sirens echoed outside the motel that Vincent turned the water off. He was finally awake enough to walk around, towel drying his hair with a trail of water running through the room. He clicked on the television but quickly switched it back off as the light hurt his eyes.

Vincent looked through the kitchen for anything to help with his headache. He'd run out of painkillers, and most of his food was expired. He grabbed his keys and discretely left the motel.

The streets were still dark, not a star in the sky to be found. Everything was eerily quiet, not even distant police sirens breaching the silence. The serene atmosphere was interrupted quickly by the clattering sound of bottles in a nearby alley.

Completely aware of the consequences of failing to shield his identity, Vincent peered around the corner into the alleyway. What appeared to be a drunk man had seemingly collapsed onto the asphalt, entirely blacked out with a casket of broken bottles beside him. Vincent cautiously approached the body, crouching beside it. The man was undoubtedly drunk, as he smelled heavily of alcohol. Not wanting to cause any more trouble for himself, Vincent left the man's body on the ground.

He retrieved the near-empty casket of beer bottles from the ground and left the scene. It wasn't what he needed, but it would tide him over until he could figure out a way to afford or steal some ibuprofen.

When Vincent returned to the motel, he immediately knew something was wrong. The door to his room was left unlocked and open, though he was sure he locked it when he left. Very careful not to make a sound, Vincent pushed the door open. He set the casket on the small table by the window and hovered his hand over his pocket where he kept his gun. There didn't appear to be anyone in the front room or kitchen which left only the bathroom and ironing closet.

As he clung to the wall in the hallway, he found the closet door still locked from the outside. Vincent held his breath as he grabbed the handgun, pressing his weight against the doorframe to the bathroom. He quickly spun around the corner and pointed the gun at the shower. Nothing.

A gunshot fired from behind him. Vincent ducked, dodging the bullet and turning back around to shoot his attacker. Three times he fired, not missing a single time. He set wide eyes on the intruder, who appeared only to be a young man looking for someone to rob. Unfortunately for him, the room's occupant happened to be a very paranoid killer.

The body slumped against the opposite wall, two bullets in the chest and one in the head. Vincent relaxed his arms, both hands still grasping the gun tightly. With shaking hands, he set the gun on the counter to inspect the body. The man didn't have any money, but his weapon was still fully loaded, minus the bullet fired at Vincent.

Vincent dragged the man into the bathroom, throwing him into the bathtub and closing the curtains. He grabbed both guns and left the room, locking the front door and crashing on the bed.