Unfound

the end

Zack let the light fray the edge of his semi-conscious state for half an hour before he blinked his eyes open reluctantly.

Sitting up, he stretched his arms out behind him and locked his fingers together. This motion was accompanied by a series of clicking and cracking noises which never failed to satisfy him. The edge of his mouth curled in humour as he thought about the numerous times his mother had chastised him over his bad habit.

"It's a one way ticket to arthritis Zacky, you'll see," she would say, with the same look of deep motherly concern on her face every time.

Zack shook his head and smiled at this thought. The good old days.

This scene might seem innocent enough, but sadly there was much more than meets the eye taking place in this small student room in Central London.

Zack McArthur was a physics student at UCL, fresh out of college with grades that all rested comfortably at the front of the alphabet. He was your stereotypical nerd. 5'5", stick thin, brown curly hair, glasses, the full package. He even had the trademark stutter and crippling anxiety.

True to form, Zack was no social wonder either. Quite frankly, socialising was near impossible for him. But as the doctor said, "Not autistic, just quiet". Thanks so much for your infectious positivity doc!, thought Zack ruefully.

He reached through the fog to the bedside table, where he found his glasses. Sliding them up his nose cleared his vision instantly and he surveyed the state of his humble abode with his green eyes in disapproval.

The ugly mustard colour curtains were no match for the 4pm October sunshine and he could see the dust spores in the air where streams of light seeped in along the edges. The duvet, lacking a cover, was strewn about the bed due to his unconscious writhing during the night.

The vomit-stained cover itself could be found piled in a stinking heap in his shower. The limited floor space was mainly taken up by empty vodka, rum, gin and whisky bottles alongside polystyrene take-away food boxes.

The wardrobe was partially open and his scrunched-up clothes spilled out of the bottom, while his desk was home to several small bags of white powder and a closed laptop. Also on the desk was a bread knife.

Zack got up to use the toilet. En route, he checked his texts.

Nothing from her. Zack noted, with a mild sense of despair. His sister usually texted him every day, asking how he was doing, when he would come back home to visit or maybe some trivial gossip that meant nothing to him. But her take on things still made him laugh.

Today however, she hadn't sent him anything. Emerging from the bathroom, he sat at his desk chair which creaked audibly from under him. He reached for the picture of her.

Talia McArthur was everything he admired. She was the same height as him, straight jet black hair and the most disarming smile you could hope to see. It was this smile that she displayed in the picture on his desk. Christmas last year and her cheeks were rosy with the chill, but her eyes glittered with excitement. At 15, she already had five times the personality Zack could ever hope to have, and she had the brains. His heart soared with pride just looking at her, that was why he kept the picture on his desk.

He didn't know if she knew or not, but she was Zack's best friend. Although as Zack mused, he realised she didn't have much competition. He lied to both her and his ever-functional mother about how much he socialised at uni and how many friends he'd made. The only real friend he had made was the guy next door who sold him the powder, and 'dealer' might've been a better word than 'friend'.

Alex is it? Zack couldn't even remember his name. To be honest, Zack couldn't even remember what the drug was, he just knew it was some white powder that masked the voices in his head to some extent.