It wasn’t even worth trying to pretend things would turn out to be better for him. It never would. He was a junkie, someone who didn’t have the option to turn things around. He’d dropped out of college, had thrown his life away, at the age of only twenty years. Twenty years of living a life on a cruel planet, in a cruel world like this and he was sick of it, didn’t want to bear it anymore. He had to close his eyes when she fixed it, reinserted the IV. He didn’t want to be helped, didn’t want to lay here. He wanted to go home, this old apartment that looked so run down. Wanted to take some rest on the dirty mattress on the ground. When she held the glass to his mouth, he opened his eyes again, despite the urge to keep them closed. He found the darkness to be comforting, not like the bright light of the sun that was reflecting in the mirrors of the buildings outside, the light that was floating into the room and would have given it a warmer atmosphere. But he felt cold, numb and vividly dead on the inside. His throat and mouth both felt like sandpaper, dry like the desert in the depths of africa. He didn’t want something to drink from her, not like this. She was treating him like a baby, which made him feel so pathetic, ridiculous and vulnerable. But the pain was too overwhelming, so he took a few sips of the cold water, enjoyed the way it helped to ease the pain a little bit. And he was mad at himself that he’d given in, accepted something that somebody else offered him. He never accepted offers, especially not from somebody in a hospital. “Why am I still alive?” The words didn’t sound thankful in any kind of way, his voice had something of a growl, although it wasn’t very prominent. But prominent enough to give away that he was angry, not happy about the situation. Not the broken bones but the beating heart inside his chest.
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