Sick's First Hit

The sound of erratic pounding hammers my ears. I’m twisted on the cot, almost naked, in some sort of post-strangulation mode, covered in sweat---and that I have skag-exhaustion to thank for. See, when you lay off the junk for a few days, your body starts to break down, and all sorts of horrible realizations sink back into your spongy little brain. Stress, work, a job, bills, reputations, television, transportation, mates, coffee, parties, burds. It all just swirls up into a big ball of noise and smacks you right in the soul, and you just want to do nothing but sleep, sleep to avoid the pain of it all. Or shoot up. Which comes later, when you want it bad enough you’re willing to do anything to fork the cash over.
My eyes finally open when the front door cracks down the front and I hear a familiar voice cawing at the door: “Git tae fuck, ye limey buftie!”
Simon’s kicking my fucking door in.
It takes a few heavy moments for me to scramble to my feet, not capable of taking leverage on the filthy linoleum, my sneakers squeaking, and I shout: “Give it a rest, Simon!”
He literally flings himself into my apartment when I undo the locks and slide the door open. When I turn around, he lifts his head, and I get the first good look of him that I’ve had in days.
He’s a fucking mess.
Pale as all hell, his skin is like fucking ice, and his ghost-yellow hair is splayed over his face, bags under his sick eyes the color of oil-stains. His clothes are too small, and even with a trim maroon blazer on he’s still shaking like he’s about to die.
“What the fuck, Sicks?” I put on my best ‘outraged’ face, all the muscles in my jaw straining.
“I want more, Mark. Cook us up another shot.” I can see the desperation in his face, and even his teeth look transparent, flashing behind those plush lips of his.
I turn away. This can’t be happening, not this way. It’s all wrong. I shouldn’t let my good bloke get into it, not as bad as I am, even if I do want to seduce him, so I say: “You don’t want any more, mate. It’s a downward fucking spiral.”
“I can take it. Just one more, for the road. It hurts, Marky. It hurts.” I look back at him. Big fucking mistake. He’s giving me those big puppy dog eyes, the ones that make him look like a delectable little virgin, and the fact alone that he called me ‘marky’, the syllables tickling the back of my compressed brain…
“I know!” I snap, and it’s all too much. I need to lie down. I crawl back onto the corpse-gray cot and curl against the wall.
Oh fuck no. That’s his knees pushing down on the floor, making me sink closer to the ground, giving me vertigo. That’s his hand planting itself on my shoulder, which is held tightly against my body, and I can feel his fingertips… shaking.
“I’ve got the money, Mark.”
And before me, as my eyes unfocus at the wall in front of me, I see two neatly folded 20 pound bills held it front of me.


Mother Superior’s is a fine place if you want to get absolutely buggered on heroin, and the plaster walls are splashed in obscene graffiti, giant cartoon cocks arcing over cruel suggestions and sprawled tag-names. Me and Sicks linger at the stairway, our white knuckles straining at the metal railing, just waiting for the doors to magically open. The sickness is there now, pooling in our stomachs, making us sweat bullets and ache like we’ve never ached before. Or atleast, it always seems like the first time, every time.
Mother Superior is named so because of the length of his habit—he was a smarmy, tall, wide fucker, all brawn and gray hairs and he was known to have the junk shot straight into his dick if he had to. He was a man. But in our situation, he was the man.
“Ah, gentlemen. Mark, I see you’ve brought us a new customer. What’s the lad’s name?” He led us through the dim interior, red atmospheric lighting flashing over us through the hall.
“Simon.” I say.
“Table for two. I suppose you’ll be having the usual. And the boy?”
“The same.”
We sit facing each other on the dingy carpet. Ali’s still here, I can hear her playing with her newborn in the foyer. But me and Sick, we’re here on business. Simon looks like absolute shit and he hasn’t looked me in the eye since we got here. He shifts and sweats.
I pass my man the money and we do the holy exchange of cash for goods, the two pale needles glistening like jewels on the tiny napkin Mother Superior had prepared for us.
It’s not much, but it’s enough.
He finally looks at me, his eyes wide and shimmering, his face flushed. He wants it, and he wants me to do it for him. He shirks off his blazer as quickly as time will allow, peels up his sleeve, and sticks his arm in front of me.
Carefully, I take his wrist. The stabbing pain in my gut is suddenly momentarily forgotten as I delicately run my fingers over the slender tube of junk, the familiar smoothness of medical plastic, and let my eyes wander over the pale hairs on his skin, the bluish vein protruding from his angelic flesh.
“Just do it, Renton.” He whispers, his voice trembling.
I tie him off and sink the needle into his vein—slowly. He whimpers. My dick stirs. I can hear him swallow, and the action is laborious for him, and my thumb dances over the plunger, teasing him.
When I meet his eyes, he’s clenching his teeth. “Fucking do it.”
I push down. The scene unravels before me: Simon shudders, then throws his head back, revealing the sweet curve of his adam’s apple, his neck, his eyelids fluttering. Those lips part and with it comes a guttural moan of pure ecstasy.
I want to fuck him. I just want to hold him down and bite him and fuck him as hard as I possibly can.
A spasm of agony jerks me from my fantasy and when Sick Boy’s body falls limp against the floor I pull the tourniquet off him, tie off, and shoot up.


It wasn’t enough.
I wake up halfway through what can only be described as a delicious trip, and the back of my eyes are buzzing and it hurts again. It wasn’t enough, and when I peer down at Sick, lying on his side with his long legs spread out haphazardly, he’s twitching. He’s awake.
“Simon,” I murmur. It’s nightfall and the whole house is silent and almost pitch-black, but I can see him, his pale clothes, his glossy skin.
I inch closer, and watch him. His chest is heaving up and down at a moderate pace, his skin glistening with perspiration, his smell that of drugs and sex and desperation. His eyes are rolled back into his head, mouth open.
I can’t take it. It’s just too good of an opportunity.
My quivering hands rise over his chest, then draw down, not touching, just hovering over his shape, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His shirt is lifted, folded over where his abdomen is, his navel and the curve of his sharp hip-bone there, and I can’t resist.
I lean ever closer, my mind buzzing, wondering if he’s conscious, silent and motionless like that, his existence only being justified by the faint thumping of his heart, the soft rush of his breathing.
My fingertips skate over his flesh, just below his navel, and he’s warm, soft, and I breathe a delicate sigh across his waist. He doesn’t move. He’s dead to the world.
I imagine that he’s really awake, though, lying there, waiting for me to use him, and my dick tents against my jeans. I want to see more—I carefully push at the material of his thin shirt and push it over his torso, exposing a single rosy nipple and all the visible shadows of his muscles, his ribs scarcely visible, what a waif this pretty thing is…
I want more, it’s maddening, but I can’t wake him, and with a whimper of frustration I pull down my zipper, the sound reverberating in the wide room, my eyes drawing over his features. The bones of his face are there, his eyes hidden in a deep shadow, his whitish hair casting finger-like extensions across the floor, his throat arched, his lips parted, and I imagine those lips wrapped around my dick when I take it in my hand.
The first stroke is tentative as I’m dimly aware of what it is exactly that I’m doing, but I intensify the strength of it after a few moments, and with a shuddering sigh I watch my friend, eyes lazily sweeping his body, my wrist pumping.
I reach out with one hand and dare to place my fingers on his hip again, sweeping it downwards below his navel, feeling the soft texture of his pubes poking from his hip-huggers, a darker shade than the golden plumage on his head I’m sure. I grasp myself firmly and my breathing hastens, coming out in sharp bursts.
More, more… my mind is begging me, and with measured cautiousness I lean forward, my stomach pressing on his hand, which makes the sensation of self-pleasure that much more gratifying, and I gather up the courage to place my palm directly on top of his groin.
He’s hard.
I’m paralyzed. My throat just tightens up, my dick impossibly stiff, and I realize that my own gasps are being echoed. By Sick Boy. Sick Boy’s awake.
Fuck.