With the hose coiled at his feet, and blossom-stained needle still hanging from his arm, Maxwell slowly ran a trembling hand down the aged, piss-stained wall, his older tracks sore and exposed, and fumbled for the non-existent light switch. His pale, sweaty fingers twitched, sending pieces of mouldy, flaking paint towards the floor in a gentle arc. A few tiny specks settled onto the backs of his cuticles, another larger one found its way under a fingernail, drawing blood. He felt the prick but immediately ignored it as a newly discovered utopia moved outwards from a point just below his navel and spread suddenly throughout his whole body. As he began to revel in the beauty, an awful, venomous scream charged all his synapses at once, reeling him backwards into the empty doorway. He paused, eyes turned inward, retched violently and fell to his knees writhing, his mind instantly thrown into a haze of tortuous agony. He slumped further down to the floor as the junk pain seared and scarred its way through his body in all directions, sending him into savage convulsions. His hands moved upwards, clawing at the air, where his knuckles briefly raked at his temples searching for a way to bleed the pain. They found none, and Maxwell, his threshold surpassed, blacked out as the accusing ghosts cascaded into his nightmare.

2 thoughts on “Junk

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