Work Text:
The best of the heroin rush had long worn off into something considerably painful.
Tucked beneath his pillow, a discarded syringe; and to his left, on the vanity, an array of shot glasses, each individual cup a mystery as to what you’d drink; stale gin or musty water. Neither seemed appealing.
Emcee had tried resting in every position — laying proved too nauseating, and he was too achy to sit up without helplessly slumping back down against his bed.
Sallow skin was marred by a violent red, scratches both thin and thick, trailing along the insides of his arms. His own doing.
Every so often, his slim limbs would give a harder tremor, always harder than the last.
A raw whimper.
He didn’t know how long he could endure it for.
Sinful.
Sinful and foolish, he was.
He longed terribly for home, whatever that was. A home, perhaps. A family — a family who could care, and a family who could, and would, love him for who he was.
The lilting voice of a mother to sing him to sleep, something he’d once had the pleasure in hearing.
He wanted it, and he wanted it badly.
Emcee wept.