Marcy was invisible. People pushed past her in the hallways without sparing a glance. They were on a beeline to the tour bus, too busy to pay any attention to anything else. She didn't blame them. Had it been her, she'd have done the same.
The manager had been shouting in the foyer when Marcy had stumbled past. Something about running late. He'd seemed angry. Marcy could understand why. Nobody had woken up until an hour ago and there had been a huge rush to get the bags packed on time. She didn't care. Marcy hadn't taken her stuff off the bus in the first place.
The syringe was burning a hole in Marcy's pocket. It demanded to be felt. She couldn't have ignored it if she'd wanted to. Her mind was set on one thing and one thing only.
Because she knew soon the shakes would come. Then Marcy would start sweating like crazy. It'd soak right through her shirt. And when it was really bad, she'd be unable to move. Her limbs would become heavy and nearly impossible to control. It'd seem like her whole body was working against her.
It wasn't the first time this had happened. The withdrawal. When her high began to wear off too soon. Marcy was completely serious when she said her drug of choice kept her alive. Heroin. Without it she was reduced to a dysfunctional mess. Times like these frightened her. They reminded her she what she was.
An addict.
Marcy's veins were on fire. The feeling sent her flying to the bathroom. It burned. She was going to go up in flames. From her pocket Marcy pulled an old curtain cord. She kept it on her at all times, in case of an emergency. Because she never knew when she'd be needing her next hit. The low was just as unpredictable as the high.
Her hands fumbled to wrap the cord around her arm. They wouldn't stay still, shaking more than they ever had before. This was something she'd done a million times over and even in this state it came as second nature. She could tie the right knot with a frightening expertise despite her blurred vision and unsteady hands.
Marcy bit the cord between her teeth and pulled it tight. Her arm almost immediately changed color, going from a pale hue to a painful red. The vein was hard to miss, marked by a cluster of little scabs where it'd been stuck with a needle previously. She had what should've been a clear shot but her shaking body made the task of hitting her target near impossible. Things were blurring and she couldn't quite see straight.
The pressure was almost too much. All around Marcy the walls were closing in. Threatening to crush her. And the vein was getting smaller somehow. It was shrinking. Its blue didn't stand out so clearly against her pale skin all of a sudden. Colors were beginning to fade. Everything had a grayish tint. A bead of sweat ran down her back, sending a shiver through her body.
The needle didn't hurt, it never did anymore. Her arm had gone numb to that sort of thing a long, long time ago. Come to think of it, so had her mind. It cooled the burning in her veins but did not put out the fire altogether. Marcy had known the gratification wouldn't be instant. That would've been too much to ask for. She deserved to boil in her pain for a while. It'd teach her a lesson. Next time she wouldn't neglect her needs.
Nausea hit Marcy like a wave. She found herself doubled over the toilet, throwing yesterday's breakfast up until her vision went hazy and her head hurt. Her mouth tasted like blood. The acidic smell of vomit filled the room. It had splashed onto her shirt and gotten in her hair. She gagged and retched but nothing more was left to come up. The back of her throat protested painfully.
Marc gripped the sides of the toilet, hanging on like there was no tomorrow. She couldn't swim. Her mamma had never taught her how. Marcy didn't know how to stay afloat. She was completely powerless against the current. Nothing could have stopped Marcy from drifting away.
