Disclaimer: The character is not mine, nor is the TV-show from which he is borrowed. Also, I've never done drugs, so most of experience as I record it is romanticized hearsay coupled with an attempt at insight. Any readers who have done drugs, feel free to correct me. As for the rest of us, I guess ignorance is bliss.
Please, I don't want it! A sharp pain in his arm. The harsh slap of metal against his foot. Dirt in his face. I'm not strong enough. You're all weak! I'm not weak. He wet himself. The pain again, a bursting agony at his temple, but dulled very quickly as the renewed pain in his arm took hold, a rushing, urgent pain that filled the rest of him like some perverse, aching need. Please, I don't want it!
His eyes shot open and snapped immediately shut again against the light. It wasn't a lot of light, really, just enough that it wasn't dark. He had never liked the dark and it certainly didn't help his current predicament. His arm was still hurting, that last part was real. Upon realizing that his sheets were urine soaked, he realized that wetting himself had not occurred in the true memory, and he was grateful; one more sign of weakness was something his captor surely hadn't needed and just as surely would have exploited. Still, he sighed, because it had happened tonight. Now it was his own awareness he had to worry about, his own judgment. He could either judge himself now, weak or traumatized, or he could worry about it later like the rest of this nightmarish event. He reached for his underwear drawer, groping around in the half-dark for the tiny vial.
No. The pain coursed through his arm and he rebelled against his own logic. No, he said again, and this time leaned back onto his sweaty pillow. His course of action was obvious. High or not, he needed to change his sheets and clothes, definitely needed a shower at some point, and it was better to take care of now than after he came down.
Fine. He got up and adjusted the lights, now completely dispelling any trace of darkness. Annoyance manifested itself when he opened the door to an empty linen closet. The sheets on his bed now were the replacement sheets. He had changed his sheets yesterday simply for the sake of tidiness; and now if he'd only put if off one more night he wouldn't be in this situation. He made his way to the dryer, flipping light switches as he went. This room on, the last room off. The next room on, this room off. The dryer was empty, meaning he had already taken the sheets out or they were still in the wash. He turned to the washer to find it too empty. Didn't he have anything that wasn't empty? He gave himself a moment to wake up, though the last thing he wanted was to be more alert. He shrugged for no reason in particular and found the basket of clean, navy blue sheets. He'd take a shower first and then tackle the bedding problem; no, he needed to get those sheets off the bed before it soaked through to the mattress.
A clean bed and a load of laundry later he let the hot water wash over him, cleansing more than his body; his troubled mind and what he thought might be his soul seemed less tainted as well. It had been a while since he'd felt this clean, and not for lack of trying. He toweled off and looked in the mirror.
Please, I don't want it! The face staring back at him had dark circles under the eyes and was slightly thinner than he was used to. He could almost feel the needle in his arm, quick and sharp and then gone. Please, I don't want it!
"I do want it," he said aloud. Saying it for the first time was like some form of infidelity. His eyes darted to the bathroom door, beyond which was a set of drawers. In the topmost drawer was relief. He wanted it, alright. But he had never wanted to want it. Injustice, anger, and a very defined since of betrayal coursed through him and he raced to the bedroom to seize the culprit. Again in the bathroom, he fumbled with the lid and finally succeeded in opening it. He was going to pour; the first drop was just at the rim, daring him to tilt a fraction of a degree further. He would send it down the drain and then…
Then what? Would he be free? He could always get more, would keep getting more when he needed it. What then? Would it, could it, ever end? He was no longer his own person and it hurt more deeply than anything that had happened that night in the graveyard. He felt his eyes sting, but would not succumb to tears. Not again.
He regarded the bottle coolly, a sudden calm stealing over him, and wondered how long he could count on his wits.
"Not tonight," he said, and tipped the contents of the incriminating glassware down the sink. Not tonight, no, but when? It didn't matter. Not tonight. Tonight he would be free. He dropped the glass in the waste basket and slung the towel over the rod supporting the shower curtain. Not bothering to dress, he returned to his bed, its auspicious cleanliness reflecting his current state of mind and the decision that had just freed him, however temporary this freedom might be.
He curled under the blanket, shaking slightly, but self-assured. It would be a long night, no doubt, unless he could fall asleep again. He reached for larger lamp and turned it off, reaching then for the smaller lamp to turn it on.
Nothing. The blub had blown, perhaps, or something in the lamp's wiring had shorted. He could either turn the big lamp on again, eliminating his chances of sleep and increasing his chance of shooting up, or he could fight the darkness. Curling further into the blankets, sinking into his pillow(now free of sweat), he closed his eyes. With his eyes closed it was almost like the lamp was on and he was simply facing the other direction. He sighed, and was almost alarmed when sleep began to tease him, draw him deeper, but he didn't have time to be surprised before it claimed him and he was out.
Morning. His eyes shot open once more, snapped shut again to shut out the morning intruding through his window, and reopened as he recollected the night's events. He had dreamed no more after the shower and, indeed, was better rested than he remembered being for weeks. He stood up and looked at the smaller lamp. Its cord hung limp, knocked askew when he was changing the sheets, he now remembered. He plugged it in and was momentarily blinded by its obedient jolt to life. He turned it off again, humor rising inside him for a reason he could not place.
Laughing, he reached for his underwear drawer. This time it was not for the vice he knew was not there, but actually for underwear. For today, for now, he was free.