**You must be forewarned. This is not my typical flash fic. This is something else entirely. This is me wanting to stretch my writing muscles, trying for something completely other, and the challenge director helping me out. This is so dark there is no light. Be prepared**
He was gone. Never coming back under any circumstances kind of gone. I’d given up hope of that a long time ago. I was dead inside. He’d been my world, my light, my reason for being on this planet. I knew I pushed him away. Poked and prodded at his wounds until he had no choice but to disappear to save himself. And I literally felt my heart break, knowing I hurt him that badly. Knowing that I’d done this to us. I’d lost nearly everything when he walked out the door. And cocaine had taken the rest.
The coke made me feel better, filled in the hole in my soul. Good drugs could do that.
I’d do anything for my next fix. Which was why I was on my knees in a dark alley, watching as the stranger zipped up and trying not to vomit from the taste of unwashed cock and cum. I wiped my mouth, my hands no longer shaking. He’d given me a bump, with the promise of dime bag. This was worth that.
The cold was seeping into my jeans, my knees were starting to hurt, and just as I opened my mouth to tell the fucker to give me what I was due, there was menacing laughter from the mouth of the alley. I scrambled up, flight instincts kicking in despite the high, but I didn’t get far. The big jackass grabbed my arms, pinning me to the brick wall. The first punch was to my kidney, and I went down, my face scraping against he rough wall. I didn’t bother to try to fight. Other voices joined, other boots and fists, but the only noises I made were the involuntary ones of pain I couldn’t help.
A well placed kick and everything went blessedly dark. I would finally meet my end.
The craving was strong, but I’d been in a coma during the worst of the withdrawals. The DTs had passed, and I was just desperately seeking the relief my drug gave me. The morphine pumping through my veins did not even come close.
The concussion had healed. The fractured leg, arm, and ribs would take longer. Pretty soon they’d be kicking me loose. They’d sent psychologists and social workers, trying to help. They told me about therapy, about rehab, about how I could turn my life around. I could kick the habit, and start living my life again.
I had a choice, I knew. I could take their help, let them get me into a program. I could work the system and get clean. And that’s what they all wanted. They assured me it didn’t have to be like this, that I could be a meaningful and productive member of society again. If I was willing to put in the work.
I didn’t bother to tell them my life was not worth living without him. They wouldn’t listen, and they’d give me nothing but platitudes. The empty ones I had heard a dozen times before. They didn’t matter.
He was gone. And I was going to shove lines up my nose until I was gone too.