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A Rotting Eden
300 years after the Apocalypse came and went, the survivors join wandering gangs called Tribes in a bid for survival in a world without nations. This is the story of one man's struggle in one of the last remaining cities on Earth.
Caught in the undertow...
      ...with no way out.

      Aramis had become familiar with the ladies in the Red Light District. He'd heard their stories and learned of their many different ways of coping. One of those ways was self-medication. And as they didn't exactly have union coverage or a general health plan, it was more than obvious they were getting their meds from the oh-so-reliable street pharmacists. It took a lot of wooing and charming to get free drugs from the ladies, the "Masqueraders," as he'd called them. But eventually they'd built a resistance to his charm, and Aramis was forced to go visit the pharmacist himself.

      Dionysus was the drug of the hour, named after the Greek god of wine and revelry. According to the myths, Dionysus was also known by the name of Elutherios. The great Liberator, freeing a person from their usual self through madness and ecstasy. Hell, with a name like that, the drug had to be something good. He'd paid the dealer for five rocks of Dionysus, then hurried off to the docks where he'd spent so many nights in Zaire's company, talking and dancing and gazing over the water. But this time he'd slunk off between warehouses, cold, moist steel at his back. He leaned against the warehouse walls, producing the tools of his addiction from his pockets: a small mirror and a razor he'd filched from some no-name little convenience store and a scrap of paper he'd torn out of the daily circulations. He took a seat on the damp, gravely ground and crossed his legs, setting the mirror in front of him and spilling the rocks of Dionysus onto them. Separating the plastic from the actual blade of the razor wasn't easy, and he'd often ended up cutting himself in his haste, but Aramis eventually separated the two pieces, throwing the plastic aside and using the blade to cut the rocks into a fine powder. He then separated the lines of powder into rows, and rolled up the scrap of newsprint into a tube. He leans forward, sticks the tube into his nose, and snorts his first line of Dionysus for the night.

      The rush is almost instantaneous. A slight tingling in the brain, like spiders crawling around just underneath his skull, and the heart begins to race. He can hear his pulse thundering in his ears, can almost feel the pleasure receptors in his brain crackling to life, aching for more. He closes his eyes, the street lamps now seeming too bright, and even the reflection of the moon in the puddles around him threatening to blind him. He exhales through an opened mouth and swoons, almost pitching forward, but manages to catch himself. Something's wrong. The ecstasy was supposed to hit him already, and he frowns down at the remaining lines of Dionysus in disappointment. Maybe doing another line will bring it on quicker. He leans forward and pressed the tube to his nose again when he sees a bright red blot spill onto the mirror.

      Fingers lift up to his nose. He's bleeding.

      Aramis had never overdosed on anything before in his life. And when he sees the blood, he knows this is exactly what was happening. But damn if it doesn't stop him from trying to do another line. The world around him begins to pick up speed, and the tingling in his brain is no longer strangely pleasant. Now it feels like a thousand tiny knives stabbing inward, and he holds his head in his hands, trying to squeeze them away. He can't stop the spinning. He's got to lie down, and so he does, fingers still gripping the makeshift tube. The blood only comes out in a trickle, but it begins to pool underneath him.

      Dying of a drug overdose. No. No, no, no. He couldn't die this way. Not of a drug overdose. He didn't want his friends, his family, his husband-to-be being told the man they all knew and loved had died an addict scraping for his last high. And so he rolls over onto his back, staring up at the sky overhead. There are no stars tonight. Too many clouds for that. He almost laughs at being denied such a beautiful sight when his own end was so near. From his pocket, Aramis produces his "plan B," his failsafe: a switchblade. He lifts his arms high into the sky and brings the blade across his wrist firmly before letting the blade drop away. His arms fall limply to the earth again. There's a new pain now, the one in his wrist to distract him from the knives in his head. What a mess he'd become. What a sorry excuse for a man. What a sorry excuse for a human being. There isn't much color on the docks at night. Things are a million shades of gray and little else, but even now the colors begin to blend into themselves more than usual. His eyes roll up into his head. More blood, from the wrist, from the nose, providing the only color in this monochromatic portrait of death. The only sounds he's able to hear now is the quiet lapping of the water against the docks. Even his own thundering pulse begins to die down. As he lay there, thoughts blossom in his mind.

      Azrael. Adrianna. Schmerz. His family. His family. What the hell was he doing to himself? How could he do this to them?

      "Selfish." He says it out loud to make it all the more real to him. He'd been selfish. Thinking only of his own pain, his own misery and not once stopping to think about what they would do without him. How they would feel with him gone.

      Things go quiet. Still. Time suspends and the entire world around him ceases to exist. He hears nothing now, and the dull ashen gray around him begins to take on a light. A warmth. Ah... so this was death. It felt almost... nice. Aramis closes his eyes and the white light grows even more intense, causing him to flinch even as his eyes are tightly shut. He's ready to give in to the Goddess Altana and leave all of his human experiences behind him when he hears an otherworldly voice speak to him. The Goddess herself! And she sounds none too happy.

"We need to talk."

Bleeding Apocalypse
Community Member
  • [05/04/12 02:12am]
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  • [04/07/07 05:21pm]


  • User Comments: [8]
    ...

    comment Your Little Fickle Pickle · Community Member · Sun Apr 08, 2007 @ 05:03am
    This one...made me cringe.
    A lot.


    comment Kizzy is No More · Community Member · Mon Apr 09, 2007 @ 05:44am
    This one left me with the thought... "You know, Aramis, you're supposed to cut the wrist downwards, not across. Across is the emo way for attention, the one they can easily save you from. Stab that s**t in and pull downwards from the center of the wrist and up the forearm, and your a** is definatly grass."

    Yup. My brain is always achin' to help people in their goals.

    comment Joseph Evan · Community Member · Tue Apr 10, 2007 @ 09:55am
    Hehe, Jojo XD
    I always was fond of that vein in the thigh, would take some work getting there, but if you hit it, you're gone.


    comment Kizzy is No More · Community Member · Tue Apr 10, 2007 @ 02:14pm
    There's a little analogy you can use to help identify whether wrist cutters mean it or not.

    Mr. Razor goes across the street to get attention.
    He goes down the street to get something done.


    comment Bleeding Apocalypse · Community Member · Wed Apr 11, 2007 @ 01:03am
    T__T I'm not reading your journal anymore

    comment marsgirlly · Community Member · Thu Apr 12, 2007 @ 10:10pm
    I find I like diagonals.
    They appeal to the inner me. >_>


    comment Kizzy is No More · Community Member · Fri Apr 13, 2007 @ 02:50pm
    I -love- that little analogy.

    comment Joseph Evan · Community Member · Tue Apr 24, 2007 @ 04:49am
    User Comments: [8]

     
     
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