@sugcrpill
LOCATION: a borderline filthy apartment that a younger darcy calls home
YEAR: 2017
AGE: 26
he has a fucking hangnail again. they happen almost every day-- and no, he won’t stop fucking messing with it. call it nervous energy-- because a lotta shit is happening right now. he could use a little bump, but his pockets are empty and his check (fat, by his description) doesn’t come in until tomorrow. whatever’s left of his stash was smoked a few hours ago, so he’s settled for a plastic cup of something pulled from the front of the cupboard with a little juice mixed in.
his scarred and shaking hands (it’s just cold in the apartment-- the AC’s broken, or something) fumbling for a crumpled up pack in his pocket. he manages to get one out, jaw shifting back and forth with the effort of such a simple action. sparking up is muscle memory, but something about it feels wrong. everything feels wrong. he’s got a lump in his tightened stomach. his chest feels empty. light from the open window illuminates a gaunt face, reddened eyes sunken in.
“You know I love you, right--??”
