Injecting the Elements

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
My entry that won FIRST PLACE in OnTheSpot's "Four Element" contest. A story about a junkie.

Submitted: August 20, 2013

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Submitted: August 20, 2013

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“Water.” A strained voice rang out as water poured into a metal cooking pot. “Earth.” Two hands released an odd powder into the pot. Placing the pot on a filthy and disheveled stove top. “Fire.” A thin hand turned on the range. The thin layer of water came to a boil as the powder was reduced. A wooden spoon wielded by a shaky grip slowly stirred the ingredients. Another trembling hand gripped the dial and turned the stove down to one, and brought the odorless concoction down from a boil. With a last stir the pot was brought off the electric stove and placed on a murky tile countertop. The brew sat and slowly cooled. “Air.” The voice muttered as a syringe came down into the pot, and drew from the medley.

The junkie flicked the needle and gently pressed the plunger. A short spurt of his brew shot out of the tip of the needle, and the junkie placed it back down onto the counter. He removed his belt slowly and adjusted his pants so they would stay up. With a twitch the thin man wrapped the belt around his bicep and secured it tightly. His left eye fluttered uncontrollably as withdrawal began to set in, yet he mustered the strength to pull through the sheer pain. His bloodshot eyes traveled across the mold stained walls to the linoleum kitchen countertop. With a shaking hand and dirty fingernails he reached for the hypodermic. Before bringing it to his arm the junkie rubbed his thumb quickly across the underside of his forearm, revealing many bruises and holes up and down his arm. The lights flickered as he placed the needle against his flesh. He tilted his head back and slowly pushed the needle in between two swelling bruises. With a sigh and a content smile the man pushed down the plunger. The concoction shot into his victimized vein.

His shadow shook as the addict let the needle fall from his arm and drop to the muddied rug. He curled his toes and stumbled backward, but did not fall. He freed his arm from the brown leather belt and let it drop to the floor. A buzzing ran through his ears. He looked up to the flickering lights as his lip twitched. He stumbled to the wall and flicked the light switch. The room went black save for the rays of sunlight that barely escaped the closed curtains. The addict looked around his grimey home, moist carpets, dingy curtains and moldy walls. He nodded and looked at his bare feet. Taking a step forward he spied the cleanest shirt he had seen in years. He picked it up and slid it over his head, perfectly content with not knowing who it belonged to, or what the dark stain was from. He pushed his arms through the sleeves and realized he had it on backward, but he didn’t seem to care.

With bare feet the user walked to the door and pulled it open. The sunlight struck him and he flinched for just a moment. With squinted eyes he walked through police tape that hung from the door’s frame. Ignoring the now broken yellow tape and the foreclosure sign stuck into the lawn the user walked on. With an empty smile and glazed eyes he walked on into the street. A crowd seemed to gather just down the way, so he decided to join them. Lifting up his ripped jeans he approached the people just up the road.

The junkie pushed his way through the crowd to see what they were gathering around. The people backed away from him not only because of how he looked, but how he smelled as well. The aroma of mold, sweat and weakness. “What the hell, kid?” Someone in the crowd yelled out as he pushed his way to the front of the line. Sitting in the middle of the road was an engine block. The addict looked befuddled as he stared at the large hunk of metal. He tilted his head when he noticed something sticking out of the engine. A white flower with four petals, each with a distinctive purple mark. The flower intrigued the junkie. He approached the engine block and stood atop it. “What is he doing?” Whispered a woman in the crowd. The man gripped the stem and pulled with all his might. His sickly shadow twitchy beneath him.

The addict ripped the flower from the engine, and as he did so sweet silence broke out amongst the crowd. He turned to the people, whose faces disappeared, figments of their former selves the faceless people began to laugh maniacally. Their hideous laughter disturbed the man, who looked at the white flower that he had uprooted. It began to wilt and die in his hand. He twitched and dropped the bud as it fell to ashes. Beneath the junkie a fissure opened. A strong odor forced its way out, an odor of pain, misery and shattered dreams. The junkie entered a slow descent, spiraling down into the dark depths. Drowning in himself.

Suddenly the addict found himself kneeling on what felt like metal. He stood and curled his toes around the chain-link that kept him from falling farther. The man looked around, but saw nothing but blackness. Rubbing his face the addict felt a cloth tightly tied around his mouth and nose. A panicked feeling rushed through the junkie. His weak heart pumped faster than it ever had. He felt as if it would burst. Water dripped down in slow drops, playing a mesmerizing cadence against the man’s forehead. He stared up for a moment allowing the cooling liquid to splash against his head. Suddenly a loud roar sounded as raging waters came down onto him. He coughed and choked as the waterfall crashed into him, the cloth tied to his face facilitated drowning. He tried his best to undo the knot at the base of his skull, but it was far too tight, and his frail fingers could not grip the wet cloth.

He fell to his knees against the chain link as the water finally came to a halt. The cloth fell from his face and slipped past the chain that trapped the man. A tingling sensation emanated throughout his entire body. He tried to stand but his own weight was too much for his malnourished muscles. He felt his flesh crack and melt, his innards oozed out from inside himself, and his bones turned to dust.

With a choking gasp he awoke and hit his head against the wooden boards above him. He scratched at the planks trying to find his breath. Before his eyes the wood turned to sawdust and fell to him. The man choked on the dust and dirt as he now scratched his way out of the earth. When he finally emerged on the surface and lay next to his own grave marker, the man took his first breath of fresh air. He crawled to the soft dew covered grass and collapsed. The blood vessels in his eyes had burst, his sclera now completely red. His heart beat like a thousand drums. He cried, and closed his eyes.

The addict rolled over and opened his eyes. Suddenly he felt his arms and legs become stretched out and restrained. The man jerked his head, looking around the room, realizing he had been strapped to a table. He banged his head against the cold wood in an attempt to escape, but to no avail. Skeletal hands took hold of the man’s head and strapped it down to the table. Now trapped in simple leather bounds, all the addict could do was observe what was to happen to him. He tightened his fists and shifted his bloodshot eyes to the window on his right. A faceless audience watched him. Their features completely missing, flesh mannequins. They began to laugh wholeheartedly. Screeching voices that cackled at the addict’s pain. He looked up to see who had restrained him. Doctors, skeletons in scrubs. Their boney fingers adjusting the straps that kept him in place. He jerked his arms, but the doctors did not flinch. They turned to him with missing eyes, and quickly turned away.

A skeleton in blue scrubs approached the man and drew back his mask, revealing his black, decaying teeth. The undead doctor took a syringe and pulled back the plunger, filling it with air. The doctor pushed the needle against his patients skin, who squirmed and fought to his best ability, but was far too weak. The doctor plunged the needle deep into the patient, and pushed the plunger, forcing air into his bloodstream. The bubbles traveled quickly through his veins. Microscopic amounts of air meandered through rivers of blood to his heart, and from his heart they stole the current to his brain. Flowing on the red seas of madness to his core. When the bubbles reached his brain, the man began to seize violently as his muscles tensed. The skeletons in scrubs watched, and the audience’s laugh became louder, echoing throughout the addict’s ears before his body became disturbingly still.

“Mreow.” With a jolt the junkie threw his body up, and gasped for air. With heavy breath, he looked around the room. He sat on a cold wood floor. Tables, dressers, shelving all empty and covered in dust. Cobwebs collected in nearly every corner. “Mreow.” The junkie looked around, but couldn’t find what was making the noise. He walked into the next room, and sitting in the middle of the old carpet was a white cat. It looked up at the man with piercing green eyes. He approached the feline, it was pure white except for a purple dot on the center of its head right above its eyes. The man knelt down and offered his hand. The cat casually strolled over to him and rubbed his head against the addict’s hand. As he scratched the felines ears it purred gently. Both the man and his new friend seemed to enjoy each others company. The junkie began to scratch under the cats chin, but as he began to let his guard down the cat sank his sharp teeth into the mans hand. He quickly pulled back his hand as the feline ripped flesh from bone. The white cat ran away in a blurr.

The wound bled profusely. The addict placed his hand over the bite in an attempt to stop the bleeding. But, when his blood hit the floor a fire sparked. The addict jumped up and backed away, leaving a trail of blood. The fire spread with every drop that fell from the junkies feeble hand. Soon the entire house was aflame. Wooden boards creaked as the fire ate away at the foundation. The fire crawled up the walls and to the ceiling. Yet, the junkie shivered, and closed his eyes.

Clutching his wound the junkie slowly opened his eyes. The fire long gone, yet smouldering soot remained. He stood in an empty field. As far as the eye could see the grass was dead and burnt, black clouds soared slowly above head, and ash fell from the sky. The man’s shadow loomed over him. He quickly turned to see from the ash and shadows emerged a woman. She wore all black, a short leather jacket that revealed her midriff, jeans, boots and even black hair that covered her face. She slowly approached the addict, who became intoxicated with her movements. She stood just slightly taller than the junkie and lifted up her hand to him. She held a flower with white petals and purple markings. She offered him the flower, but did not speak. He graciously took the flower from her soft hands. As he held the flower its roots dug deep into his skin like needles. Green vines wrapped around his arm and forced their way into his veins. The flower bloomed beautifully, but the addict slowly withered away. His skin grayed and his blood turned to dust. He fell forward into the woman’s arms, and looked up to see her for what she truly was. The woman brushed her hair back to reveal her true self, faceless, just a skull beneath ebony locks, held by a womanly physique. He let his head rest against her bosom, and accepted her cold embrace.

Red and blue lights shined through dingy curtains. Suddenly, the door burst open and policemen entered. They looked through the sites of handguns, but soon realized there was no threat. An officer saw the body leaning against the kitchen wall. He slowly approached the man that sat unmoving on the floor. He leaned down and plucked the syringe from the young man’s arm and placed two fingers on his throat. The officer found no pulse. He removed his cap and brushed his blonde hair back. They came on reports of a break in, but did not expect to find a body. Another policeman entered the kitchen and came to a stop behind his partner. Releasing quiet sigh the officer stood. “Overdose.”


© Copyright 2020 Tucker Haase. All rights reserved.

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