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The door rings as Toxic steps outside the store, a fresh breeze hitting his skin with the streetlights illuminating him gently from above. The plastic bag in his hand rustles quietly, mixing with the quiet hum of cars passing by the nearby road. He flips his wallet open and opens the zipper of the coin pocket. The plastic bag bounces off his hip as he raises his hand, depositing the spare change. The coins clink against the two that had already been inside. He tosses it up once, feeling the weight in his hand. It seems to be getting lighter, month by month. It's not like he's had the time to find a gig after Shroud got arrested. He'd have to make do. Just a little longer.
Under his shoes, the concrete is wet. What remains of the pouring rain slides over the streets surface. With ease he dodges every puddle that had formed, by now he'd memorized their position. For now, earplugs in and time to move forward.
Is that a new graffiti? "Addict," it read in bright blue. Not too original in it's bubbly font, but it was something new at least. It seemed like two artists were fighting over the spot on that wall, with each being bigger than the last. Yesterday it said "broke". You can still see the faint outlines of the sharp "Fuck capitalism" that had been crossed out to be made into a lovely invitation. "Fuck me".
Let's see when they'll run out of space, he thought to himself. He shakes his head; when did he start caring about that shit?
Few more steps - there’s Frank. He'd been living on that corner for about 3 years. Toxic hadn't noticed him until about a month ago, when he started making these frequent rounds. At some point Frank greeted him, so now whenever he walks down this street, he says his silent hello with a nod. Today he reached into his bag, taking out something resembling a tiny meat pretzel which he threw towards Franks dog, who immediately perked up and stormed towards the treat. If he got a thanks - no idea. It's not like he'd be able to hear over the music blasting in his ears. Just like the rustling of the bag in his hand, it was only for Frank and his dog to hear now.
Like another item on a checklist done, he kept his head straight and continued walking.
Deep breath. The bouncer of the Sardine offers a silent nod that Toxic returns. One swing of the door and the lively atmosphere of the bar hits him right in the face.
Smirk on.
The greetings he receives anytime he comes here… Yeah, those felt good. As superficial as it all was, for a moment he was on top again.
Laughter and a smug grin; that's how his "ex-coworkers" know him - and that's how it's going to stay.
Drink after drink he downs. There's barely time to wonder; when did it stop burning?
Had he talked to that guy before? Eh, who cares? He's reacting nicely to the honeyed words that flow off his tongue like they were second-nature.
Someone on his lap? Anything for a quick rush of dopamine.
Another joint finding it's way between his fingertips? Sure. He's built up enough of a tolerance.
The flashing lights and shitty karaoke blend into one, and he can't even blame that on the alcohol or weed in his system. No, this was his brain doing that entirely on it's own - bury deep, wall up, forget, rinse and repeat. Day in. Day out. Just that white bag. That he wouldn't let out of his sight for anything.
With no time to ask himself if it was even worth it, it was time to leave this seemingly parallel dimension where he still clung onto his old life. He had to get home.
Nightly breeze hits his skin again and this time, his expression dropped. What had been an amused grin seconds before has been replaced with a dead man’s stare.
For someone cross-faded, his steps were steady. Practice makes perfect, huh?
Still, with every moment he got closer to home, he was filled with dread. It's not her fault. But fuck, did he hate seeing her that way.
Deep breath. With the door opening and the familiar whirring sound meeting him, another version of him appears.
Smile on.
The ability to tell which of his smiles were real or fake was long lost, the emotions lay buried between layers of lies. Bag tight in his hand, he greets his mom. Her head snaps towards her son immediately and a sweet smile spreads across her lips. The tube connecting her nose to the ventilator tugging on her makes her smile falter only momentarily. Nonetheless, her eyes lit up whenever he got home. That in itself made it worth it, he told himself.
His eyes rake over the sores behind her ears, the damn oxygen mask digging into the skin, leaving nasty wounds that refuse to heal.
"Do you want me to redo your bandages?" The soft tone in his voice is not something that many hear, it was something reserved inside these four walls. Something private, only for her.
Her hand snaps to her ear. Her gaze turns to the floor, before replying she fidgeted with her fingers. "It would be nice, but-"
"I'll do it." He interrupts. Now he's right beside her as he's unpacking the medicine from that white bag onto the table. Amlodipine. Bosetan. Epoprostenol.
She smells the alcohol on his breath, but never once does she comment on it.
In a gentle gesture, he runs his hand over her cheek. Pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead, he anchors himself in the moment. Her eyes close, an unspoken agreement where he's strong for her and she is for him.
Because what else is there to do? She knows that they have got this all wrong. But she is bound here by this machine, with it being the only reason she can still lay eyes on her son. The man that brings her the only joy she has left.