The humidity of a Queensland summer’s sun sweltered the rundown apartments of Narrabeen Road, illuminating their withered paint jobs and cracked windows. As it climbed up the horizon line, its rays were cast into the shadowed corner of Block 5, where they shone through an unobscured window and into the suffocating depths of Jason’s entrapment. He lay on his side, back to the warmth and knees by his chest. His hands rested open-palmed on the bloodied scars along his shoulder blades, self-inflicted from his own uncut nails in an attempt to redirect his pain during an agonising bout of withdrawal.
But now, all was calm.
Jason was lulled into peaceful unconscious by the soothing toxin of his fix. It travelled from the injection site on his ankle, through his circulatory system like a blazing rapid, heating him up hotter than the sun ever could. A smile graced his unshaven face as the dopamine rush overwhelmed his starved opioid receptors. Finally. There was nothing else like it.
Jason’s high transfixed him for hours. He didn’t dream, he never did, he simply lay in his usual fetal position, eyes closed, lips slightly parted as he took in deep breaths of his room's musty air. He was a mess: dishevelled, unwashed, malnourished… yet, he was at peace. Though this peace never stayed long, and Jason always awoke too late to beg his shrouded sense of normality to stay for just a few more minutes before it waned away to nothingness.
Jason opened his eyes to the kicked-in drywall beside his bed - the resulting broken-ness of his toes had done little to ease yesterday’s withdrawing agonies. The sun no longer dazzled his room, allowing the dark cold to crawl out of the corners and shroud him once more. His blanket of heroin-warmth was diminishing too. He could feel the drug’s lingering effects, they promised him at least an hour of relief. But he knew what would happen once they left him, and Jason wasn’t prepared to deal with it so soon.
He jerked into an upright position, scouring through the utensils littering his bedside for any hope. He’d only had enough money for one fix, yet, as he always did, Jason prayed for some missed traces. But his deranged searching only resulted in accidentally getting pricked by an over-used, but otherwise empty, needle. He’d savoured nothing, no consideration for the desperation of his future self. Jason’s panic simmered, smothering the heroin’s goodbye wishes.
He rose to unsteady feet and crept to his ajar bedroom door.
“Donovan?”
No response. He must still be at work.
Jason skulked through the evening shadows to the apartment’s opposite end. He invited himself into Donovan’s office-turned, doorless room. The act of stealing his flatmate’s money was routine. He crouched down beside Donovan’s bed and slunk his arm deep between the mattress and box spring; a snake inviting itself into a hen coop. His fingertips grazed the pitifully thin money-concealing envelope just as the rooster made himself known.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Donovan’s demand shook the room, startling Jason. But he’d already snatched his prize, and he turned to his disconcerted roommate with the envelope clutched feebly between his gnarled fingers.
“I called for you and you didn’t answer.” Jason deflected the question. He knew the intention behind his cowardly actions was obvious. “I thought you were still at work.”
Donovan crossed the gap separating him and Jason in two stiff steps. His anger sizzled on his words. “Well, I’m here.”
He attempted to snatch the money but Jason pulled it closer.
“Why didn’t you answer?”
Donovan’s expression twisted into one of pissed-off impatience; Jason could see his jaw twitch as he ground his teeth to sand.
“Because I figured this is what you’d be doing! Every damn paycheck I set aside cash for expenses and it's somehow always smaller the next day when I recount. I hoped you weren’t responsible, but I couldn’t ignore the itch telling me you were. This has been happening for months, Jason! I’m having to cut costs because you would rather get high!”
“It’s not that simple!” Jason snapped. “I don’t just want to get high, Donovan, I fucking need to!” He spat the words. They flew off his lips like saliva. “You don’t understand. I’ve tried so hard to stay clean but I just can’t! I’m not even using to get high anymore; I’m doing it to feel normal!”
His pleaful explanation did little to ease Donovan’s acrimony. He reached for the envelope a second time, dragging it from Jason’s grasp with both hands. But Jason refused to give up his saving grace. He yanked it back. Tug-o-war.
“Goddamnit, Jason! Give me my money!” Donovan snarled.
“I just need a 50!” Jason begged. “Please, Donovan, I can’t face withdrawal again. It’ll fucking kill me!”
“Your addiction will kill you first!”
“Maybe I want it to!”
Like a foul was called, they both stopped. Dead still. Jason was still on the floor, leaned over clutched onto the envelope, the opposite end of which was crinkled by Donovan’s own assertive poise. Their equal desperation was reflected in the other’s eyes. Understanding dampened their fiery dispute.
“Maybe I want it to,” Jason repeated, soft like hot breath. “Wouldn’t it solve both our problems? If I overdosed? Sent into a perpetual sleep of peace, never needing to face the hardships of withdrawal or this fucked reality ever again?”
Donovan didn’t speak. He stared down at his astray roommate.
Jason dropped his gaze, directing his attention to the envelope. How such a small thing could cause such a revelation. He let go.
Donovan collected himself. “I don’t want that,” he whispered.
“But I do.”
Jason retreated into himself, reflecting on his words. He’d never verbalised his addiction before. It’d all stayed deep within him, only creeping out through his actions during violent fits. But now they’d slipped out, and they choked the atmosphere like smog. They swathed Donovan, too. He stood among them and felt their desperation for the first time. They cleared his memories; Jason’s violence, his thievery, his sob-stories… Donovan realised now they weren’t attempts to guilt trip him, they were cries for help.
He eased himself down besides Jason, the envelope still in his hands.
“I didn’t know,” Donovan murmured.
Jason turned to meet his gaze. “Didn’t know what?”
“That you felt that way.” Donovan examined the damaged envelope, feeling along its creases. “When you became so obsessed with getting high, I always assumed… you stopped working. You were either unconscious or pissed off… then I noticed you were stealing my money… I wanted to kick you out.”
Jason started, panic flashing across his glazed eyes. “Please don’t-”
“I’m not.” Donovan cut him off, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Though he dropped his affable demeanour, adopting an expression of steel. “But you’re staying clean.”
Jason’s shoulders slumped at the proposal. “I can’t, Donovan.”
“Yes, you can.” Donovan moved his hand down Jason’s blown-vein-bruised arm and to his open palm, taking a gentle hold of the damaged appendage. “I’ll be there for you this time.”
Jason shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know,” Donovan admitted. “But I’ll be with you.”
Silence beset them. They sat, facing one another in the darkness. They could hardly see, but their touch made their impaired vision obsolete. Jason digested Donovan’s words of hope; he allowed the warmth from his tender touch to seep into his cold, damaged skin. Inside him, his heroin sickness slowly woke. It made his fingers twitch, his stomach ache, his feet itch to get up and run out the door to his dealer. He made a move to get up, but Donovan tugged him down. Gentle yet assertive.
Jason tried to make out Donovan’s face in the dimness; he could only see the glint of his eyes. There was a shimmer of hope in them, a long-term solution that could ease his pain.
Donovan had changed his perspective; maybe Jason could change his, too.
“Okay.” He exhaled deeply. “I’m willing to try again.”
“I’m glad.” Donovan gave Jason’s hand a benign squeeze, solidifying their deal. “We’ll get through this, together.”
He eased off the ground and helped Jason to his own feet. Despite the dimness surrounding them, they both felt light.
As Jason followed Donovan out his room and into the kitchen-conjoined living room, an unusual sense of natural calm spread through him, from his feet to his head. It warmed him. Yet heroin sickness still devoured him from the inside; it tore him up and begged for just one more fix. Despite everything Jason let the thought manifest.
Donovan noticed his turmoil; he stopped by his side and touched his shoulder.
After knowing nothing but self-injury to redirect his withdrawal symptoms, Donovan’s soft touch delivered Jason a new sense of reassured hope. He knew what withdrawal entailed, and it terrified him, but knowing he’d have Donovan’s compassion through it all this time around lifted a small weight off his shoulders.
It was only a small step, but it was a start to the marathon that was recovery.