This story is AH from Jasper's POV, tends to be graphic and does not follow your traditional "love story" pattern. It is primarily a drama, but you'll see some situational humor down the line. I hope you enjoy it!
I am cold. I am calculating. This is how I survive. No attachments, only the strategy. And the poison.
It was mid-afternoon and the skies were an ominous shade of gray. I climbed the concrete stairs to the abandoned passageway between Building Three and the Cafeteria, my footsteps scuffing softly against the built-up debris. No one used this way anymore; the mute colors evinced dilapidation and a dreary dinginess that people instinctively avoided.
I slung my backpack to the ground halfway down the walkway and sat down beside it. The faded red nearly blended in to the concrete, just another failing color in a concrete hell that no one would willingly enter. Under the distant threat of rain, I undid the ties holding it shut and took out my kit.
Poison. That is what people called it, but I didn't heed their unproved opinions. I combined the ingredients together as carefully as a neurosurgeon would practice his craft, holding the lighter at the ideal position so as not to burn anything, stirring the mixture until it was perfect. Fuck opinions. They did not know what it felt like to live in poetry; to them there was no bliss, only self-righteous anger. To them, this was deadly poison.
I rolled up my shirtsleeve, exposing the green veins prominently through my translucent skin. I wrapped the tourniquet dutifully before taking a deep breath. My jaw was clenched tight enough to cramp the muscles. I inhaled deeply, trying to calm my heartbeat, trying to quell the rising anticipation in my gut. I hated needles.
I tottered over the edge of trypanophobia and reached my resolution. I put the needle to the vein and closed my eyes. There was a pause – my hands were shaking – and then I pressed the syringe right through my skin.
Poetry. Ecstasy. Heaven. I can call it any of these terms and it will still not be equal to the feeling. My muscles tensed. I felt someone's legs scrambling and then was propped back against the wall looking at my own legs doing the movement. My eyes closed, my head bowed, and my mouth hung open; I tried to take a deeper breath through the shallow hisses of air coming through my lips while my mouth moved convulsively in sync with my breathing. Then it really hit me, the corruption of my skeletal muscle system, and I sprawled on the grimy concrete.
Fuck opinions, I thought while the sky spun and faded to black. This is better than an orgasm.
E/N: This is your first glimpse of Jasper, but it won't be the last! This story is told entirely from his perspective. If you would like to read other POVs, please see the companion piece "This Infatuation."