#*sam&mack

sketchbook open in his lap, sam has made himself comfortable on a bench in front of a large roman statue that he wants to get the detail of just right. as a result, he hasn’t budged from this spot in twenty minutes. not even the roaming pack of school kids on a field trip can deter him.

worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, staring down at his hands, he nods, slowly at first and then with a little more confidence. 

“yeah. —yeah. i think so.” 

he’s fucking tired of living like this, puppeteered by his addiction. most days he feels like he has no control over himself. most days he just feels like a ghost, passively watching himself destroy himself and there doesn’t feel like there’s much left. he either needs to figure his shit out or throw in the towel for good and call it. 

agreeing to this, though, means his life needs to screech to a halt for a while. he’ll have to call out of work for a week, at least, to get over the worst of the withdrawals. stock up on gatorade, aspirin, and an armful of candy. get comfortable on the bathroom floor where he’ll surely spend a lot of time. 

@vitalphenomena

"why? it doesn't matter."

he doesn't want to talk about it. his past is better off left in, well, the past. let it collect dust, let it be forgotten. if it's never talked about then it's almost like it never happened.

"it was years ago anyway and i was just a kid."

@vitalphenomena

she's dragging him to his room, one arm looped around his waist. the last three days have been a blur. he's gone from the couch to the bathroom and back again. made the occasional stop in the kitchen, but mostly survived off his candy stash, dropped off by spirit three days ago with the smack.

"the couch is fine," he protests, but that's as far as his protesting goes. he's still high and doesn't care to expend the energy. the bed's comfortable anyway.

@vitalphenomena | from here.

he was doing fine fifteen minutes ago, peace wrapped like a warm blanket around his shoulders. it's all ruined now, though the high is still obvious—his movements sloppy, pupils nothing more than pinpricks, eyes half-lidded.

she might be right, he still thinks, cramming the kit carrying his dope back into the duffel bag that he lives out of. shame still manages to wash over him despite the drug in his veins.

@vitalphenomena

“What?” 

Sam comes to, a fog lifting from his mind. He looks down to see his hand curled around a bottle of whiskey, an empty glass sitting beside it. He’s awake, he’s at work, he’s supposed to be serving drinks. Is it the drugs in his veins or is it God? Still hard to tell. It could be both. 

Shaking his head, he clears his throat and pours. 

@vitalphenomena

he's seen her all week in his dreams dying, dying, dying. after the first dream, he woke, heart slamming out a staccato pattern against his chest. in this one she was rising into the sky, limbs hanging loosely at her sides, a cascade of hair hiding her face. her figure silhouetted against the moon and then she plummeted. she hit the ground with a sickening crack of bones he can still hear with uncomfortable clarity.

seeing her here, in the flesh, living and breathing, is a shock to his system. he knew who she was, recognizing the woman in his dreams as the same woman from that cult documentary, but his visions and dreams are nonsense to him. at first he thought he was dreaming about marisol. that would make a little more sense.

"mackenzie," he says hoarsely, grabbing her shoulder. he tries to explain the dreams, the visions, the premonitions that haunt him in both his waking and dream life, but the only coherent thing that comes out of his mouth is: "you should be dead. you're dead." it's a loop he's stuck on until she cuts through it.

"it’s me. i’m not dead yet."

sam falls silent, the racing in his head coming to a screeching halt. a breeze blows past, picking up dust and dirt and trash in the diner's parking lot. a photograph, blown by the wind, comes to a stop at his feet and his heart lurches.

he bends down to pick it up, swallowing.

"but you will be soon. i think." he hands over the photo. it's taken from above, looking down at the two of them talking just moments ago, his hand on her shoulder. it's an impossible angle. the sky is empty and they're alone.