He leaned over, clutching his sides, and vomited all over his sleeping bag.

It took him a few minutes to get adjusted to this new state of consciousness.

"Fucking hell," he muttered in his raspy morning voice as he noticed the vomit and then stood up warily. He had to take a few seconds, upon getting to his feet, to grab his balance. Once the immediate physical demands were taken care of, he surveyed the room.

It didn’t look good. Granted, it never did. The carpet was always stained beyond recognition, most of the lights no longer worked, there was little to no furniture, and the windows had all been boarded up….from the inside. He noticed Cassandra still in her sleeping bag in the middle of the floor.

"You the only one here?" Rodney asked. No answer.

"Is Virgil coming back with more?" Still no answer.

The stereo, in whatever room it had ended up in the night before, was still playing the same Sublime CD that had been on for probably a good 36 hours. Some of the lyrics could still be discerned as the quiet music wafted its way throughout the apartment.

Early in the morning, risin' to the street
Light me up that cigarette and I strap shoes on my feet…

Some food sure would be nice now, thought Rodney. When was the last time I ate?

"We still have the basic ingredients for toast, right Cass?"

Rodney made his way to the dark kitchen. He grabbed some bread from the top of the filthy refrigerator and put it in the toaster. He opened up a drawer hunting for some jam, when he caught wind of something rancid, and quickly doubled over the sink and released the contents of his stomach once more.

"Doesn’t anybody clean up around here anymore?" he shouted angrily to Cassandra as he let the tap flow in a rinse when he was finished puking.

He decided to abandon the toast in favor of the bathroom.

He made it within a few feet of the bathtub when he passed out once again.

...24/7 the devil's best friend
It makes no difference
It's all the same in the end...

Laden with connotations.

And Rodney sat up slowly.

Dazed and in pain, Rodney went into convulsions. It was particularly bad, as he felt as if he broke his arm in the fall to the bathroom tile and was using it spastically at the moment.

As soon as he could get a hold of himself, he threw himself into the yellow, mildew stained. bathtub and turned on the shower.

Laying at the bottom of the tub, with the cold water streaming down onto him, did some good. He began to sober up again; the haze lifted some.

"Is this what I’ve become?" he asked nobody in particular. "Fucking hell. How can you tell when you’ve crossed the line? When does fun become death? I can’t even tell which is the user anymore, me or the heroin."

His speech turned internal once more.

"God I hate this city. I could have been, like a farmer in Ohio and shit. Just doin’ my crops, working in the sun, don’t have to worry about any of this shit. Do I do the deal because I want do dull the pain, or do I do it because I am a masochist? I wonder how fine a line that actually is. Man, things were okay back in the day. Prom. Beautiful bubbly lasses with gowns and ribbons in their hair. Getting teased for wearing those lame-ass ruffles. Getting’ laid was the only thing you had to worry about. When did life get so fucking complicated? How did it happen so fast? Or is it just me?"

"Did I start doing the drugs because life got too complicated? Or did life get too complicated because I started doing the drugs?"

"Does it even matter?"

...I feel the break, feel the break, feel the break
And I gotta live it out
Oh yeah un-huh
Well I swear that I, what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, I can't define...

Rodney nixed the thoughts and went back to pure id.

Pulling himself up and out of the tub was a grueling task, but it didn’t compare to catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked bathroom mirror.

And they say a person begins to resemble their surroundings.

"Fuck it, I need to refuel."

He made his way back to the living room, this time with a bit more control over his bodily functions. He spied against the wall the row of rigs that had been used the night before by all the party goers (or was that the night before last?). Lined up like fucking Rockettes. He couldn’t place for sure what belonged to who, and the only people around at the moment seemed to be himself and Cassandra. It occurred to him briefly that everybody having their own rigs is pretty much lip service only to trying to stay safe. When you’re that fucked up, unprotected sex and using the wrong needles are not things that even occur to a person.

"Whatever", he said as he spied his own set.

It only took him a few minutes to realize that he had no more smack.

"So is Virgil bringing back more shit or what?" Rodney shouted once again to Cassandra. This time, he didn’t really care if she answered or not.

...what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, is there's just one way back
And I'll make it
My soul will have to wait...

To his dismay, all the other rigs were empty as well. It bothered him momentarily that he would even check, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A moot point anyway.

"What’s the difference between a bender and an addiction?" he asked Cassandra, though the question was more directed at himself.

He was, of course, killing himself.

Is it suicide if you never think about it?

Or is that instinct?

The door to the apartment opened.

Virgil entered, carrying two bags of groceries.

Rodney realized he was hunched over the row of rigs like a starving animal. He stood up and brushed the front of his shirt self-consciously.

"Hey," was all he could muster in greeting.

"Cassandra still out?" asked Virgil as he closed and locked the doors, fumbling a bit with the groceries.

...just wipe that look off your bati face
you hate me cause I got what you need...

"Ummm, yeah, I think so."

"You look like shit," commented Virgil as he put down the groceries.

"Did you get more?"

Virgil paused for a bit as he laid out the contents of the bag on the floor.

"Of course."

Rodney went for his rig.

"You puked all over you sleeping bag, Rodney."

"I know."

"Seriously man, you look dead."

Rodney brought over his rig to where Virgil, sitting, legs crossed, was beginning to cook up a batch.

"As they say, a person begins to resemble their surroundings," answered Rodney.

"Nobody says that," was Virgil’s reply as he handed Rodney a full syringe.

"Well they should." Answered Rodney between gritted teeth as he shot himself up.