Eternal Addiction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A junkie comes back from the dead to continue his habit of drug abuse, for even his spirit is desperate for the ecstacy of foreign chemicals

Submitted: July 30, 2009

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Submitted: July 30, 2009

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Bryan casually threw his cigarette into the puddle, watching the flame painfully squeal as its smoke clouded the dirty water. He rolled up the sleeves of his scruffy, navy-blue coat, and shielded most of his face with his hood. There was a blurry, black and white graffiti word written on the mildew-infested brick wall, but he could never understand what kids these days were trying to tell the public. He looked up at the ominous sky, seeing that it was a dark, rainy day. There seemed to be black mists that floated amongst the clouds, like the sickened air coming out of a smoker’s mouth.
He raised his neck and scratched his black stubble with his rigid fingernails. His facial image became worse after he started going into the drug business, for he also was a victim of a small killer that he sold to people out of his own greed. There would be nights where he would just look into his cracked bathroom mirror and gaze upon the wreck he had become.
His black eyes were painfully bloodshot, and his skin was as pale as a corpse. His dirty-gold teeth were crooked and chipped off, with tartar growing in between them. The wrinkled flesh that concealed his soul seemed to contain no fat or blood, and swelled up along the edges of his bones, making him look painfully gaunt. He felt like he was losing his soul, submitting to the evil that was rolled up in paper.
A gut feeling told him that this was his punishment for selling evil to people who felt like they needed it. He could never forgive himself for all of the lives he had destroyed, and the crime he stood for in this morose city. Rehabilitation couldn’t help him or any of his customers, so he decided to sell some of his grass to keep out of the streets.
Soon, Bryan saw a man with a grayish hooded-sweater appear out of the horn-honking, poverty-ridden roads. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was deathly pale like Bryan, yet there was a force that kept the man skittish and awake. His nerves were tingling, ready for anything, for Bryan could see it in his strained eyes that haven’t seen dreams for months. There was definitely a tension that was torturing this man as he hungrily smoked one roll of weed after another.
The name of the loser was Ethan Daniels, one of Bryan’s most expensive customers. He was probably the most addicted smoker in the neighborhood, begging and murdering for even a snuff of marijuana. He was taunting Death, gently stroking its scythe, not realizing that the Grim Reaper would decapitate him with it one day.
Bryan was close enough to Ethan to feel his tar-scented breath as a crazed smile stretched across his face. Like Bryan, Ethan’s jaundice, elderly skin seemed to contain no red warmth, as if he was a vampire, thirsty for a snuff of pot. He could see the dark desire in Ethan’s eyes, craving drugs to keep him sane. Bryan wasn’t even sure if he could be in the presence of the hopeless junkie he created.
Ethan extended his quivering arm, holding a few crumbled dollars and a couple of dimes and quarters that slipped out of his palm, falling into the foggy water of dirt and Mary Jane.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” Bryan told him, beginning his confession, “I can’t continue this business, alright!
Ethan’s eyes began to violently twitch as he spoke, “Ah, c-come on, man. J-just give me a-a whiff! Hey, j-just g-g-give m-m-me a s-snuff, for God Sakes.”
“Look, I’ve killed people for the sake of money!” Bryan began, “I don’t want you to become a victim of this shit!”
Ethan looked at him, confused, “What the h-hell a-are y-you t-t-talking about? Forget, you! I need my weed! I’m serious, man, I can’t live without it! Please! Oh God, please!”
The eyes of the junkie began to tear, pouring his sadness over Bryan’s hooded-sweater, and whimpering like a child for his mother.
“No, Ethan. This stops right now!” Bryan declared.
The emotion that leaked out of Ethan’s eyes began to dry up. It looked as if he had applied crimson mascara around his eyes, yet it was only a part of his soul that the drug was consuming. Soon, there was loathing in his eyes, where his straining red veins became brighter and began to possess him.
Suddenly, Ethan pulled a Desert Eagle out of his pocket and aimed it at Bryan. With no conscience to guide him, Bryan quickly took out a Glock 17 and thoughtlessly fired three rounds at Ethan.
The bullets stabbed at his stomach, leaving behind bloody patches. Ethan fell backwards and slid down the brick wall. His head was lowered, looking down at the rocky, black alley. Blood drooled out of his mouth as the cherry veins in his eyes began to disappear, setting his life free.
Bryan covered his gaping mouth with his palm, as his eyes looked at twenty-five to life. He could see the blood that was being absorbed by Ethan’s grey sweater, adding a ruby tone to it.
Soon, the depressed drug dealer received a revelation. He thought he had been killing people through drug money, selling addiction and ruination. But, now he had finally killed someone, and this time he realized that it was his own fault. Ethan’s life may have been crumbling because of Mary Jane, but did he truly deserve to be murdered?
Bryan scrambled out of the alley, running through the smoky water, contaminating his sweater with the death and sin that it caused. Despite all of the guilt that devoured his soul, at least he knew that Ethan would never have to worship the false god in his lungs anymore.
Watching the quick and blurry lights of the subway tunnel sickened Bryan, reminding his stomach of the nausea when he murdered Ethan. The yellow lights that caught his eye for barely a second turned to blood that were smeared all over the walls. The guilt of the living scarlet paint haunted his mind, punishing it with a headache.
He rubbed his weary, red eyes, kept open by the sound of the three bullets that ended Ethan’s life. His face seemed to have less of a fiery tone within it than usual. He felt completely empty, with no hope for a bright future. His long, twitching fingers reached into his pocket, pulling out a joint. He drowned his depression in its poison, calming him as he saw the ghoulish smoke floating around the train.
The smoke didn’t seem to affect the rest of the homeless junkies, with their eyes lost in an impossible fantasy. They were wearing scruffy, rugged clothing, like frizzy scarves, and muddy, brown raincoats. There were no cashmere sweaters or Egyptian-leather suits among the horde. Their tortured eyes and twisted, unshaven beards were an accessory to their financial damnation. The only thing that they inhaled was the breath of cold metal, and the fragrance of mold that grew on the walls like vines. Every single one of them was a pathetic loser, including Bryan.
The victim of guilt couldn’t stand being around people anymore, for he had already ended one of them. The train soon stopped at a dark, abandoned part of the subway, and Bryan shamefully walked out onto it.
As the zooming lights of the train blew winds of punishment into his face, he smoked another roll of weed. The coal-tasting smoke nestled on his tongue and slithered down his lungs, torturing them with a pleasurable sensation. Then, he threw the piece of ill candy into the empty subway tunnel, barren of anything but carnivorous, ebony rats that were feasting on the gravel of the track.
This abandoned part of the subway had a yellowish tone to the walls, like the urine color of a smoker’s face. The tunnels seemed to emit smoke, polluting the jaundice walls, and reddening Bryan’s eyes. He felt as if he was inside his own lungs, where there was only a repugnant smell of illness. 
Bryan then noticed that there was graffiti on the walls. Thick, crimson words were written in the shadows, so Bryan moved closer to read them. They were probably some stupid message left by ignorant kids who thought they knew something about suffering, but that didn’t dampen his curiosity.
He nearly froze when he saw the words, for they were written in blood! It wasn’t only the type of macabre paint that frightened Bryan but the words written with the liquid life. They were:
“Why couldn’t you have just given me my pot, Bryan?”
Bryan stood in disbelief, as the roll he was smoking fell out of his mouth and hit the moist ground. This had to be a prank played by a witness of the murder, or perhaps the cops were trying to make him vulnerable. Truthfully, he had no idea what to think of the graffiti.
Then, he heard footsteps, yet there was no rhythm or pattern to them. One foot seemed to step forward, and then the feet seemed to skip as if the person was limping. Bryan hesitantly turned around, as his face became a horrific ivory.
He fell back onto the soggy ground, seeing Ethan’s undead corpse standing right in front of him. His grey sweater was woven in blood, and his face was a ghostly, dark-blue. His white eyes blankly stared at Bryan and his moan sent a feverish chill through his veins. The dead Ethan walked like a zombie, not hungry for flesh but hungry for the phenomenon of marijuana. 
Bryan quickly unsheathed his Glock 17, and fired every single bullet until the gun was empty. Despite the amount of ammunition that Bryan had unleashed, Ethan was still standing. The wraith’s sweater was painted with another coating of blood, adding more of a demonic touch to him. Bryan rose to his feet, but he could only feel the hopeless and echoing agony of a nightmare that was exhaling its sickened smoke through the subway tunnels.
“How d-did y-y-you…?” Bryan stuttered, believing that he was completely insane.
“You should have given me my weed!” Ethan shouted, longing for the dark love of his diseased master, “I may be dead, but I still need that pot! I can’t even go on in Heaven without it! Please, just give me a joint!”
Despite Bryan’s disbelief in Ethan’s living corpse, he was still disappointed that Ethan couldn’t rest in peace without the Mary Jane. He still craved grass like it was air, or perhaps it was true love in Ethan’s mind. The beauty of the black sulfur was twinkling in his dead eyes, and his mouth drooled shadowy juices that cushioned his viral throat like hot soup. Bryan couldn’t let Ethan’s soul live on like this.
“No, Ethan,” Bryan stated in a decisive tone. He mindlessly took out a handful of grass and wrapped it in a tissue, but paused as he was about to put the tempting plant in his mouth. He threw it on the ground and rubbed it into the floor with his toes.
“I’ve realized something,” Bryan began, “Neither of us can live on with this green stuff! I’m tired of wasting my life for a little piece of grass, and I think that you should be tired, too! I thought that I could always drown my sadness in it, but I was wrong! I told you before about this little beast, but you wouldn’t listen! Now is the time to stop, Ethan! Now is the time to stop!”
There was a long silence between the man of the living and the man of the dead. Ethan only stared at Bryan with his innocent, white eyes. He became utterly depressed, realizing that he would never smoke another joint ever again. However, this was only what Bryan was saying.
Ethan’s sensitive, ivory eyes grew dark-red veins that were caused by his love for weed. He didn’t care about anything except getting high, and that would be his Hell that he would always surrender too. That would be his damnation that he would always desire.
Suddenly, the dead junkie took out his Desert Eagle and pointed it at Bryan’s forehead. Bryan had no thought running through his brain at that time, but the last thing he saw was the bright light of the fire coming from the gun. The last thing he heard was the loud explosion of the gun, which would ring like hellish bells in his soul for eternity.
Ethan sat in the shadows against the molding walls of the subway. The tunnels of the subway exhaled smoke, which caused the walls to decay and wrinkle like a smoker’s face. Ethan’s spirit would sit on a pile of bloody newspapers, with his corpse inhaling satanic oxygen into his lungs. Then, he would exhale it, releasing devious, silver clouds into the subway. He would never detach himself from the blasphemous plants that he needed to survive. His soul seemed to strangle itself as the smoke of the netherworld engulfed him in the tomb of his never-ending addiction.


© Copyright 2019 Mike Carey. All rights reserved.

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