Work Text:
Rue was having a groggy moment.
Stumbling in sober had actually been the least annoying aspect of tonight's experience. Her feet ached, she was both desperate for macaroni and too tired to microwave it, she was surrounded by a clusterfuck room decorated with half worn clothes and bad memories, all of it. All of it just added to her already immense exhaustion.
The rest of the house was quiet, thankfully. Although the ambient darkness was comforting, the silence hanging in her room gave her thoughts space to fester. She missed Jules. She missed feeling grounded and floating at the same time. She missed the highs.
She missed drugs.
Not in any meaningful way, at least. She had no intention of copping anything. At this hour she had no intention of leaving her room, at all, to be transparent. But she did miss the moments where her surroundings actually felt like something. She especially missed when she felt embraced in her space, or a space that wanted her. Eventually her slight pinning for reprieve turned into a form of self-inflicted peer pressure.
What even are drugs? Dangerous, absolutely. But mainly chemicals. Just another form of shit shoved down our throats at every fast food restaurant in the city. Another form of our bodies, fuckin around with whatever to fuck around and find out. We're constantly on drugs, in every setting, but it's only these "certain ones" that keep making their way into homes and then killing them. Nobody's in rehab for fucking SUGAR. Or heartbreak. Wouldn't that just be therapy? Why is it that heartbreak therapy is just therapy but rehab has a bunch of ineffective bullshit mixed in with therapy?
In a way, Rue surmised, Jules was a type of drug. And she missed that hit, that one intoxicating hit that always kept her wanting more.