Dull

Rubbing his forehead did not rid the fog from his glossy eyes. His chest felt as if a weight had been placed on it, making it a struggle to breathe.

He swallowed. As the saliva slid down the back of his esophagus it throbbed, grinding like flesh upon sandpaper. Shallow gasps escaped his lips; he strained to continue speaking to the guests, but the humming in his ears brought him deaf. The pounding refused to pacify. Everything felt dull as he breathed in more cocaine. Someone was talking to him, but even his concentration on their words did not bring him out of his daze. The voice in front of him was still fuzzy, obscure like frosted glass. It was familiar, essentially as if from a dream. He was unsure of whether they were coming from his head or not. His memory was like a scratched disc, missing chunks of the movie were missing, or in this case, his life. He lifted his gaze, trying to clear the fog that was deceiving his vision.

The high was not long enough to satisfy his craving. Twenty minutes was not long enough. The voices got louder, and the ringing that was continuously surging through his head quieted. It all came back. Right, she was dead. That's it. Otosaka threw the blunt's butt on the ground. The voice wasn't going away. 

How annoying.

His body craved more of the white powder as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Standing up, the boy rubbed his eyes, groaning with displeasure. The headaches hurt more than he recalled. A shiver ran down his spine, he didn't think it would affect him this quickly, he hated reality. He needed more. 

________________________________________________________________________________

Eyes were wide with terror, Yuu observed as the man clawed at his hands, which were notably weaker than his own. His expression was begging the teen for him to be released. The boy's grip tightened only when the man realized he wasn't planning on stopping. A manic grin crept upon Otosaka's lips, strengthening with every passing second as the man grew closer to unconsciousness. The other men apprehended what was happening and abruptly started screaming with panic and alarm.

He let go of the unmoving human. The man crumpled to the floor, dropping like a puppet cut from its strings. A steady river of blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils. "Call the ambulance!" He understood a bystander yell. But they all recognized there was nothing they could do to save him at this point.

The group left the student with the dead mobstar, his blood spooling around Otosaka. He knew he would win against the gang. These thugs. They never stood a chance, he thought, what idiots. 

Gripping the stolen package, he shoved it in his pocket. Filtering through the garbage was not an ideal solution to finding paper, but it was all he got. The alleyway was sheltered from the frozen winds. Frostbite had already nipped at his hands, turning them black and raw. Picking up a magazine, he flipped through it for a minute, smirking at the pictures inside before tearing it up to roll it. 

Igniting the blunt with his lighter, he took a deep breath of the drug. He relaxed, letting the high ease his memory. But as another breath of smoke passed his lips, the cigarette slipped through his fingers and into the dirt below him. His body hit the ground with a thud as the drug and cold took over him.

The brooding city was still dark, fog settling in the nearby foothills. Streets were absent of noise, only filled with stray cats in search for a meal. Shops and boutiques were closed, their "open" signs dim with abandon. Chimneys smoke rippled into the sky, filling the city with the scent of a warm fire. The alley, vacant of life, grew eerie as Otosaka's body stilled.

They paralyzed his fingertips, yet the diminutive fragments of ice floating through the atmosphere appeared so harmless. He grasped his arms, somehow hoping to trap whatever heat was left; his action did not change the fact that it was still pointless. The waves of nausea continued. Gasps emerging from his lungs, visible in the chilly air, began to stall, growing disassociated. His legs were numbed at this point, with his feet growing black with frostbite. Sitting against the brick wall of the boutique, he buried his face into his shirt, still shaking.

Blinking repeatedly, he brushed the tears from his blood-shot eyes, tears which now soaked his dark circles. A cold shudder descended through him. His eyes were sealed, unmoving beneath his lids. There was no one to comfort him in his time of suffering.

He was alone.