‘SERVANT’

Rie Sheridan Rose's photography appeared in Constellations; Thoughtful Dog; the Ladies of Horror Flash Project; Passed Note Review; Ghostlight: Magazine of Terror; and Lumen. She keeps a camera with her at all times. She is a member of the HWA, SFWA, and SFPA.

SERVANT

Malcolm needed to get well.

Every day he got up and repeated it and every day he ignored it. It reminded him how people said every day that they were going to change their lives, but never did, just got up and did the same thing as yesterday. But this was actually the time. He was out of money, out of favors. If he didn’t get clean now he was going to end up dead. This was his last chance. 

Just this one last time and then he’d be clean.

Malcolm filled a glass with water and stuck the needle in, drawing some out. He pushed it out hard and did it again, just to make sure it was clean, convinced no obstructions resided within. He took more water out, put it on the spoon, and added the heroin to it. Then he took out his Zippo and flicked the flint wheel, placing it on the counter and letting it burn. Malcolm hovered the spoon over the flame till the water bubbled and hissed. 

The spoon was folded over and blackened from overuse, the dope simmering like a stew. Malcolm dropped a small ball of cotton in the spoon and it soaked up the water, turning dirty brown. He stuck the needle in the cotton and drew the dope into the syringe. Malcolm looked at the barrel and flicked it, air bubbles rising. He pushed the plunger with the barest touch and a dribble came out of the tip, clearing the barrel of any bubbles. 

Then he took the belt and wrapped it around his bicep, squeezing tight, the belt in his mouth. He slapped his arm and looked for entry, pockmarked with sores and collapsed veins. He picked up the syringe and hit a vein with the needle, pulled the plunger and watched the blood unfurl in the barrel like some kind of octopus dancing through the ocean. He pushed the plunger down steady and ejected the needle, loosening the belt. 

It hit him at once——the taste, the rush. 

Warm, curdled blood turned hot and silky, slithering down his veins in a mad dash to the brain, lighting up dopamine receptors like a pinball machine. It was good shit, better than he’d had in a while. Malcolm swallowed and his eyes felt heavy as if something were dragging them down. His arm had a bead of blood and he wiped it away with a finger, smudging it in the crook of his elbow. 

A forlorn sense of regret swept up like wind, brushing up against him. He was sad this was his last time, but also hating himself for doing this. It fucked him up, body and mind, made him feel like he wasn’t a person, but it wasn’t his fault. The heroin helped. It cauterized the wounds inside, made it so he could live every day without wanting to die.

Malcolm stood up and went to the sink and washed his hands. He’d be good for a while——the dope potent and fresh in his veins——but he needed a plan for when he came down. So he went into the bedroom, opened a notebook, and sat on his bed. The pen scratched the paper, doodling, his mind coming undone like carbonated soda, effervescent with the potency of actionable plans within his grasp. The heroin cradled his ambition like a newborn baby, stroking it and mewling over the cuteness until he fell asleep and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.

#

Stripes of sunlight peeked through venetian blinds. Malcolm opened his gummy eyes, rolled over and knuckled the grit nestled in the corners. His mouth tasted like boogers and he hawked up phlegm and spat it into a tissue. He took a cigarette out of the pack on the nightstand and patted his pocket, but the Zippo wasn’t there. 

Malcolm got up and went into the kitchen, the Zippo laying open on the counter. He picked it up, flicked the flint wheel, but it wouldn’t light, just sparked, ineffective. It was open on the counter, so he probably forgot to turn it off. He sighed, went to the stove and turned the burner on, dipping his face to the flame. The cigarette glowed, smoke gushing down his lungs, gas from the stove snaking up his nose. He inhaled and held it, looking through the window over the sink.

The glass was dirty and stained. Steam rose from the streets like the smoke he exhaled. The sink was full of dishes, counter scattered with junk. The kitchen tiles were old and chipped. The crook of his elbow itched with longing, that pleasant prick and the needle releasing itself into his bloodstream like a proboscis, but he couldn’t. He told himself no, it wasn’t him, not anymore. 

Malcolm sucked the cigarette and tried to think about living sober, a thread of smoke rising to the ceiling. He was a junkie, but he didn’t have to be. People came out of addiction every day. It wasn’t easy, but they did it. You had to fight, square up and confront the inadequacies. Once he got over the heroin there’d be time to be useful again. He wanted to be proud of himself, of the resolve he knew he had within him. The embarrassment of becoming a junkie was a vicious hit to his self-esteem, but he’d gotten through worse and he’d get through this.

The phone rang and he walked into the bedroom, picked it up off the nightstand. Work was calling. He was late for the second time this week and already on thin ice. 

#

Malcolm got to work over an hour late. He didn’t feel very good because he knew he’d start getting sick soon and then he’d have to fix quick. If he didn’t, he’d be in a world of hurt and that’d really fuck up his plans at rehabilitation.

His boss yelled at him when he walked in, told him strike two and if he didn’t get his shit together then he was going to shitcan him. Malcolm took the scolding with an ache between his eyes. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, dry swallowed aspirin in the first aid kit, and started taking tables. 

He handed out laminated menus rife with oily fingerprints. People ordered drinks and asked questions and complained, Malcolm taking care of it all because that was his job. The aroma of cooked meat wafted across the room and through the tables, mouths slavering like animals. One of his tables left a shit tip and it pissed him off because he busted his ass, checked on them three times and why did people go out if they were going to do shit like this? But he kept his head up, forgot about it, focusing on the work. His head still hurt and the craving was there but he ignored it, kept working. A kid threw up at one of his tables and the place smelled rancid, curdled milk ruining appetites. Malcolm was there when it happened so he cleaned it up, gave the kid a ginger ale, told him it would settle his stomach. The mother thanked him, but Malcolm shook her off and when he came back the kid was feeling better. The mother thanked him on their way out and Malcolm smiled, went to the table. He’d gotten a good tip and it made him feel better.

A car blared a horn outside, steady for about five seconds, and two teenagers ran outside, jumped in the car, and drove off. He went over to the table and looked at the check. They didn’t pay. Malcolm’s heart sank and he squeezed the check in his hand, sharp crinkles pressing into the skin. It pissed him off and he wanted to fix, but he couldn’t, needed to be good. This day had been pretty shit, wasn’t even half over, but Malcolm was determined to hang in, to be somebody he could be proud of. 

A regular sat at the bar and bit into his cheeseburger, masticated over and over like steerage in the pasture. Malcolm stared and the man looked at him and he looked away, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, self-conscious. Maybe it was hypnotic and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was just a junkie getting sick, his brain frying like an egg.

The day was long. He was tired and sweaty, but Malcolm wouldn’t let himself back down. Eventually it was over and Malcolm walked away with eighty-three dollars cash. He went into the kitchen and filled out his chart for the day. His boss talked some more shit when he punched out. Malcolm made like he was sorry and slinked out the back. 

He stumbled between the buildings, his eyes on the people crossing back and forth at the mouth of the alley, a thudding in his head like a heart. He didn’t exactly know why he did it, but he did. He took out his phone and hit up Drax and set a meet. Drax was one of the dealers he used. He was hit-or-miss. Sometimes he’d short you, but sometimes he’d be on it. Malcolm didn’t think too highly of him. He was a shitbag and sometimes he’d fuck you, but when you were a junkie you didn’t really have much of a choice and these guys knew it. They knew you’d be crawling back to them at some point or another and even if they’d fucked you, you wouldn’t give them any shit because you needed them or else you’d be getting sick and then you’d really be fucked.

Malcolm took the subway down to the East Village and walked down to 7th avenue and puked in a trash barrel. He wiped the vomit from his mouth, cleaned it on his pants. Refuse lined the curbs, the stench of city living ripe like rotten fruit. Malcolm hawked up phlegm and spat on a trash bag, turning the corner and seeing Drax’s car parked beneath a gnarled tree. Malcolm tapped on the hood and bent down, looking in the window. Drax turned and flicked his head upward, Malcolm waving. He unlocked the car and Malcolm got in.

Drax wore a doo rag, his hoodie too big and his pants floating around him like a bathing suit. A scraggly beard dotted his jawline, a pimple on his lip like a volcano ready to blow, his face shiny with grease. They bumped fists and he said, “What you need?”

“Half gram,” Malcolm said.

Drax dug in his pocket, but Malcolm stopped him.

“Could you weigh it out in front of me?”

Drax stopped and straightened out, looking at him. Malcolm looked back. “What? You don’t trust me, dog?”

“No, not at all. It’s not that. It’s just you shorted me last time and I’d just like to be sure everything’s good this time around.”

Drax frowned. “Short? I don’t short people, dog.”

“Listen, I don’t care that you shorted me. I owe you money. I get it. I’d short me too if I were you. But I really need my money’s worth this time. You give me a half gram straight and I’ll give you what I have on me.”

“Or you could give me what you have on you and get the fuck outta my car.”

Drax reached behind him and pulled out a pistol, laying it on his knee. Malcolm looked at Drax and the gun and then Drax again. His skin prickled with anxiety and Malcolm really wished that he’d kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t let him see that, needed to be cool.

He lifted up his hands, hurt and surprised. “The fuck is this? You do me like this?” 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are thinkin’ you can say whatever the fuck come into that junkie brain of yours, but I don’t short people, motherfucker. I been straight with you, bitch, and you try and make me look like some piece of shit that short people or something.”

“I didn’t say any of that, Drax. Come on, man. You got it wrong. I was just being real with you, man. You shorted me. Not a big deal. But I’m not gonna pretend like it didn’t happen.”

Drax adjusted the grip on his gun and Malcolm’s heart flared. He felt sweaty, his mouth dry. He imagined him raising the gun and blowing him away right here, right now, his body wracked by a fusillade of bullets, ribbons of blood puddling in his lap. Drax would kick him out onto the street, blood painting the sidewalk, his flesh going white like soap. Then his life would leave his eyes in a helix of light, nothing to see but inky darkness.

Malcolm swallowed and tasted vomit. He wiped his lips and Drax stared at him.

“You got it on you?”

“Got what?”

“The money, bitch.”

“Yes. Right here.”

Malcolm fished the money out of his pocket and counted eighty-three dollars. Drax proffered his hand and he gave it to him, counting it. Then he took out his scale, weighing the heroin. The sight was a near-tangible relief. Malcolm felt good, like he had power. Drax had put pressure on him, but he didn’t budge. He stood up to him and Drax respected that.

Drax showed Malcolm that a half-gram was on the scale and Malcolm nodded, smiling. Drax put it in the baggie and closed it up and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s head. Malcolm stared into the barrel feeling sick. Nerves crackled like thunderheads. He was jittery, barely breathing.

“What’re you doing, man?” Malcolm said.

“Like you said, you owe me money, bitch.”

Malcolm looked past the gun and into Drax’s eyes and they were steeled against any pleading, but he tried anyway.

“Please, man. Don’t do this. I need that really bad.”

“Oh, no doubt. Yo junkie ass gonna be pukin’ all over the place in a couple hours. But that ain’t my problem, dog. That’s something you gonna have to deal with.”

Malcolm looked at the baggie on the scale and then at the gun and Drax thumbed back the hammer. He froze like an ice sculpture. “Or you could lose your brains all over the window,” Drax said. “Up to you, dog. Either way I’m good. Get out or die.”

Malcolm got out real slow and backed up.

“Close the door, bitch!” Drax said.

He closed the door and Drax pulled away, Malcolm feeling sick. No money, no favors, and no luck.

He was fucked.

#

Malcolm walked through the door, tripped and fell. He got up, closed the door and went to the kitchen, puking in the sink. It took everything he had not to hurl on the forty-minute subway ride to Bensonhurst, shivering with cold and muscle spasms. His muscles weren’t working well, like they didn’t want to listen to his brain anymore. It felt like little tennis balls were lodged up and down his back. His eyes pulsed in their sockets. His stomach cramped and he keeled over, slumping into a chair at the table. Malcolm put his head down and the coolness soothed him some, but only for a minute. He cradled his stomach, heard it gurgle and he cramped and dry heaved right at the table, but nothing came out.

Malcolm fingered a cigarette out of the pack and labored upward. He wobbled to the stove, lit up and it helped some, but not much. He turned on the sink, sipped some water, and hit the cigarette. The buzzing in his head crisscrossed over his mind like bees in the hive. It distracted him, but not so much because things were getting bad and it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t move anymore, so overcome with agony that it hurt to breathe. 

So Malcolm trudged to the bed and flopped down, trying to rekindle any last remnants of strength before deciding what to do. He was burning up. He stripped and lay on the bed naked, but then he was cold and he heaved blankets over his emaciated body, praying for sleep. 

Sleep came, but marked with hallucinatory dreams, his grandmother’s gnarled hands rasping over his body. She smiled at him, her face branched with wrinkles, locks of strawberry-blond hair flopped over her forehead. Her hand snaked around the back of his head and he was scared, remembering bad things, eyes closed, images materializing in the black.

Malcolm woke up shivering, soaked in sweat. It was early morning. He wiped himself off with the blanket and sat up, heart racing, old memories fading away like coronas of light behind the eyelids. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, got dressed and went into the kitchen and lit it on the stove. 

His stomach felt shriveled and hollow, simmering with acid. He went to the fridge, took out an old, wrinkly orange, spongy in his hands. He tore it open, trembling, the fruit soft and gummy and syrupy in his fingers. He plucked off a gobbet and put it to his lips. The taste was strong and sweet and overwhelming, the acid tickling his gag reflex. Malcolm lunged for the sink and puked, little strings of bile hanging from his lips. He dropped the orange into the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water sluice over syrupy fingers, wiping them dry on his pants. He coughed and spit, let himself breathe and regain control. He bent and slurped some water, letting it roll around in his mouth before spitting. 

The knife block in the corner caught his eye and he moved toward it. Black handles pointed at him and he pulled out a knife, stainless steel like gunmetal in the gloomy kitchen. Malcolm decided something and slipped the knife into his waistband, throwing his shirt over it. He turned and scooped the keys off the table and left, decision made.

He needed to score.

#

The air was chilly and still as if frozen molecules were suspended in the air, movement as well as time lulled in the cold. Malcolm zipped up his sweater and threw the hood over his head, the knife’s cold metal touching bare skin just above his waistline. He stalked the streets, hands buried in the muff pocket of his hoodie. 

He didn’t have any idea what to do. There was no thought that lit up like a light bulb——the panacea to this heroin problem, or lack thereof. He merely stumbled down the streets of Bensonhurst with a knife in his boxers, having no idea how he could solve this, but feeling very confident that it would involve violence. He walked to the corner of 82nd street and 21st avenue, making his way to the 18th avenue subway station. Malcolm figured he could jump on and head to Manhattan. Maybe he’d be able to find somebody to take pity on him or maybe he’d come upon an opportunity to take money.

Malcolm stopped on the corner and blew pale breath into the air, waiting for the light to turn. His stomach roiled and churned acid. He closed his eyes and focused on ignoring the pain. When he opened his eyes, it was then that he saw an old woman exit her building across the street. She was small, hunched over, wearing a heavy coat. A cane was clutched in her gnarled claw of a hand and it reminded him of his grandmother. Tiny wavelets of numbness rose up from the nape of his neck and spread out over his head. She came inching down the sidewalk, her purse hanging over her forearm. Malcolm didn’t feel very good about it, but he recognized this for the opportunity that it was. 

He crossed the street against the light and a boxy car beeped at him, hitting the gas when he was clear, leaving a trail of stinky exhaust fumes. He fell in behind her and watched her leave the sidewalk, approaching a beige vehicle, boxy in its own right, clearly from the eighties or nineties. It looked like an Oldsmobile, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure. The old woman sidled up to the car and keyed the door, wrenching it open on rusty hinges. That was when Malcolm slid the knife out of his boxers and stuck it into her armpit, making sure she could feel it. 

The old woman jumped and looked back at him, pale blue eyes sunken into craggily sockets, pouchy skin puffed up underneath.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said. “I just wanna talk. So just unlock the car and sit down. Nice and easy. I just wanna chat.”

The old woman lifted her arm and looked down at the knife poking into her side. She looked back up at him with resigned eyes. She sighed and thumbed a button on the door, the locks popping up with a thunk.

“There we go,” Malcolm said. “Nice and easy, now. Don’t be stupid.”

He crept around the front of the car and the old woman watched. Malcolm popped open the passenger door and motioned for her to get inside. He looked around and saw an Asian man on the other side of the street, probably going to work. Other than that the streets were empty and cold, most of Bensonhurst not yet ready to take on the day.

Malcolm slithered inside and watched the old woman fumble into the driver’s seat. She almost fell in and Malcolm helped her, grabbing her cane and sliding it into the backseat. She thanked him and he helped her change positions before reaching out and closing the door. 

Their breath smoked in the car and she turned to him, eyes the color of an icy blue sky. “So are you gonna kill me or what?”

Malcolm frowned. “Of course not. I don’t wanna kill you. I just need some help.”

The old woman nodded as if she knew all along what this was about, perhaps had even expected it. “Well, you’re here now. What can I do for you?”

She laced her fingers on her lap and waited patiently. Her hair was done up in a kerchief and light orange hair fluffed out beneath it. Malcolm’s grandmother had strawberry-blond hair, something like a reddish-orange, and the old woman’s hair reminded him greatly of his grandmother, so much so that he needed to look away from her when he talked.

“What’s your name?” Malcolm asked.

“Dorothy,” she said.

“Well, Dorothy. I guess we’re not in Kansas any more, are we?” 

Dorothy looked at him and smiled awkwardly. “No, I suppose we’re not.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just in a bad way right now and I need your help.”

Malcolm shivered and burped, an acrid taste climbing up his throat and coating the back of his tongue. He shivered again, felt a small cramp in his calf. He grimaced and massaged it out, Dorothy observing quietly, probably putting the dots together a lot quicker than Malcolm wanted her to.

“Do you need money?” she said.

Malcolm knuckled the cramp and straightened out his leg, doing everything he could to make sure it didn’t tighten again. “As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t need it all, I’m not trying to bleed you dry or anything. I just need what you can spare. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m kinda at the end of my rope here. Not really sure how to go about fixin’ myself up.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re in this position. You really don’t look too good.”

Malcolm chuckled. “No, I don’t. And I can tell you I don’t feel good either. But it is what is. I brought it on myself. And like I said, I’m sorry to do this to you. But I just don’t know...don’t know what to do.”

Dorothy watched him. Malcolm sniffled and swiped away the snot on his upper lip. He met her gaze and she didn’t look away, just watched him with something like pity. She nodded solemnly with puckered lips and snapped open the buckle on her purse, digging around inside. She pulled out her wallet and licked her thumb, pulling out two crisp hundred-dollar bills. She held them out to him and he was astonished really, just fucking blown away at the kindness this woman had bestowed upon him.

“Are you sure?” he said.

Dorothy nodded.

  “I told you I didn’t wanna bleed you dry or anything. Only what you can afford. You don’t have to give me this much. I can certainly make do with less.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re gonna need it a lot more than I will.”

He nodded and looked at her with dewy eyes. Malcolm reached up and took the bills gently from her fingers. He looked at them in his lap and sniffed, wiping his eyes. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t you that I did this too.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. She leaned forward and put a hand on his forearm, squeezed, trying to comfort him. Malcolm appreciated it.

“What’s your name?” she said.

He sniffed again and watched two tears drip on the hundreds, darkening the paper like raindrops. “Malcolm,” he said softly.

“Why are you doing this, Malcolm?” she said.

He croaked a sob and shook his head slow and deliberate, eyes clenched shut and really starting to cry. “I don’t know. I wanna get better. I just don’t know how to do it.”

“Yes, you do,” Dorothy said. “You know how to get better. You’re just scared. And that’s okay, Malcolm. It’s okay to be scared. Everybody is scared of something. But just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over Ben Franklin’s face and nodded, huffing out a breath. “I guess that’s true. My grandma used to say nothing in life worth doing is ever easy. Cuz if it was easy then everybody would do it.”

Dorothy laughed and nodded. “That’s right, Malcolm. That is too true.”

She grabbed his hand and nestled her fingers between his. He thought they would’ve felt like old leather, but they were soft, her palm puffy and smooth. His hands were cold, but she warmed them with her touch. 

He didn’t want to be the person that got up every day and said they were going to change their lives, but never did. Malcolm was better than that. And if he could just get over some of the things that were dragging him down, maybe, just maybe he could be the person that he always wanted to be and not the person that he was now.

Malcolm looked at Dorothy and her smile was genuine. She cared about him, he could tell. Maybe he just needed support from people like her and it would get him through. 

Malcolm picked up the money and handed it back to her. He picked the knife off the seat and held it in his hand, ashamed of himself. He closed his eyes and hung his head back, trying to breath, to escape the shame that covered him like a shroud. He felt Dorothy curling the money back into his left hand, reaching over and hugging him, her lips brushing his ear. “You need it more than I do,” she said.

He nodded and squeezed out tears. He leaned into her and she hugged him, her hand snaking around to the back of his neck. 

Malcolm stiffened and stopped. The hand gripped the back of his neck and he felt another hand lift his shirt and play at his navel. He was eight years old and his grandmother sat in her favorite chair. She smiled at him and fingered the strings of his pajama bottoms, her fingers real soft and warm, sending a terrible sense of dread radiating throughout his entire body. Malcolm stood still, the breath coming quick and shallow. His grandmother looked at him and brought him close. She kissed his cheek and slipped her hand into his pants. Malcolm clenched his fist and exhaled, scared and angry, angry at what she had done to him. He thrust the knife forward and buried it into her chest. 

Malcolm looked up and saw Dorothy’s pale blue eyes looking into his, her face blank. She looked at him confused, eyes staring into and beyond. The blood spilled down her chin and she coughed in his face. Malcolm flinched and clenched his eyes shut, feeling the spray of blood. He opened his eyes and saw Dorothy wheezing breaths, little blood bubbles blooming on her lips. Malcolm tugged on the knife, yanked it out of her chest, the blade slick with blood. 

“What did I do? No, what did I do?” he said.

His hands trembled and he dropped the knife, pressing his palms against the wound, the blood pumping out hot and sticky and slathering itself all over him. He looked at her face and saw her staring at the wound in her chest. She put fingers to it and they came away dabbed in crimson. Dorothy looked at him, cupped his face in her hand and smiled.

“It’s all right, Malcolm. It’s all right.”

His lips trembled with emotion. He wanted to tell her that it was an accident, that he didn’t mean it, didn’t know it was her, but nothing would come out except little gasps of breath and a whole lot of regret. Dorothy’s dewy eyes looked into him and then they weren’t, just staring into space like glass eyes, seeing nothing but the cut to black.

Malcolm cried, looking at his hands, soaked in her blood. The snot dribbled over his lips and into his mouth, tears riding down his chin and dripping onto his sweater. He leaned his head against the window and breathed a cloudy mist, dirty and opaque. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. The ache in his head was like a jackhammer, his entire skull vibrating with the force of it. His skin was dotted with goose bumps. He felt a peristaltic squeezing in his lower abdomen, would’ve doubled over and fell if he’d been standing. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. He needed to get well. 

Malcolm swallowed down the sickness, the miserable existence he called a life. He snatched the purse from her lap and stuffed the money inside. He tucked the knife into his pants, underneath the shirt, and got out of the car.

Malcolm stopped and peered inside the car, Dorothy slumped against the seat, her lap cupping a pool of blood. An overwhelming sense of regret gripped him in that brief moment, but his body’s erratic, painful sensations allowed him to surpass the regret and hold onto the desire, the need. Malcolm gripped the door and slammed it shut, leaving a bloody handprint on the window. He ran back to his apartment, a group of Hasidic Jews staring at him, confused frowns as to the muddy, maroon smudges over his front, hands buried in the cuffs. He fingered at his phone on his way up, texting dealers at random, looking to score.

#

Malcolm stood at the corner of his building, skin feverish with the anticipation of the needle. He wore fresh clothes and his hands were washed, but he could still feel the residue on his fingers, gloopy blood stuffed beneath his nails. His teeth chattered as the car pulled up, the window rolling down. It wasn’t Drax, but it didn’t matter. He still owed. Malcolm owed every dealer he knew. He offered two hundred for a gram, knowing it would put a dent in his debt and would make the dealer happy enough to part with the dope without hassling him.

The baggie curled into his palm. A lightness of feeling seeped into him like water into a sponge. It wasn’t long before he was upstairs with a loaded barrel. The needle pressed into the skin, the skin giving before letting the needle puncture, a sweet spearing of pleasure sending a shiver down his spine. He shot up and color sprang back into the world. Malcolm felt good again, felt like a person. The sickness disappeared and satisfaction settled over his face like a bridal veil, marriage to his addiction flowering in his mind.

Malcolm slumped over, the needle dangling in the crook of his elbow, belt fixed to his arm loosely. He thought about Dorothy, her chin bibbed with blood, the knife buried in her chest. It was her eyes that burned through him, glazed and inanimate, staring into an abyss. He knew he had done a terrible thing, but it didn’t seem so bad now, the memory scrubbed over with heroin, hazy and abstract.
Malcolm tongued his lips, droopy eyes cast over the apartment, a siren blaring in the distance, louder with every second. He considered his life and what it led him to be, but it felt so difficult, the change he’d envisioned, that he’d pined for in days past. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. It would take time, dedication. He thought he had it in him. After today, he would be better. After today, Malcolm would no longer be a slave to addiction.

Malcolm got well and he was going to change his life.

Tomorrow.

THE END

Richard Gregory