#dimebcg

“Aha, well,” Rue started after taking a puff of the cigarette. “First off, I need more drugs,” She explained. “And I’m gonna need you to spot me again,” She added, her gaze meeting his as she shrugged nonchalantly. “Second off, I know I don’t really talk about...this kind of stuff with you, but I really need to tell someone about Jules,” Rue said and handed the cigarette back. “She is...literally one of the best things that has ever happened in my life.”

Ethan stumbled into the corner store. He had emptied the flask of vodka he swiped from his dad’s stash before deciding a walk sounded like a good idea. His headphones tucked in his ears blasting 90s alt-rock bullshit that reminded him of Kat, Kat who had driven him to this drinking alone nonsense. He didn’t do it often, but sometimes, the emotions just buried themselves deep in his chest and he needed to scream and shout along with some angry music that matched the shape of his insides to get it out. 

He opened the cooler and grabbed an Arizona tea, slamming it closed, mostly because he had no idea how intense his movements were as he wavered his way between the aisles. He stopped in front of the candy, paused for a long moment just staring into space, and grabbed some Twizzlers. He liked to use the sticks as straws, especially with Vodka. Which led to the next thing on the agenda. He swayed up to the check out, a distant look in his eyes as they latch onto the guy up front. He tried to asses whether he would sell him the alcohol or not. He didn’t have a fake ID, just pure desperation.

dear diary meme + @dimebcg

dear diary –

they told me that it might help to write about the people in my life. something about the whole… recovery process, and wanting us to identify how we feel and what triggers us, or some other hippy dippy bullshit that they feed people so that they can feel good about shoving us out the door when the time comes. 

i actually don’t mind rehab… it’s kind of like being in a hospital, only it’s not really as nice and some of the people here are kind of violent and people are throwing up all the time. makes me think about you… fez. about all the people that you’ve met, bored teenagers, jittery adults, everyone just with their hand out looking for a fix. and there you are, the magic man, making everything better again… is that how you feel about yourself? 

you were a senior when you dropped out, i always wondered why you did it so late. but you knew me because i was like, always around and you thought i was tall and didn’t look my age and i told you were a perv but like, i kind of loved you because you dressed cool and treated me like a person even when i felt fucking alien in my own body.

but you were kind of like an alien too, always have been. like you really don’t give a fuck about what anybody thinks about you but i’m pretty sure you’re the only person i know who’d like, kill someone cuz they hurt someone you love. but i wish i knew who you did, kinda feels like, you ain’t into that at all, your life’s crazy enough.

             All she feels is her heartbeat.

And not in the fucked up way that has her usually gasping, bloody, for air as her heart thuds and thuds until she’s suddenly staring at yet another ceiling, eyes rolled back as the world gets all touch and go... no, there’s no panic attacks packaged neatly throughout her day. Body floating, fingers that splay over the faded corduroy pattern of the yellow couch, rubber duck brilliant and smudged, begins to imprint against one brown cheek. How each breath RATTLES at her lungs, demanding exit, eyes attempting to open past the blissful haze that envelops her, lithe fingers hook, catch, sinker against someone else’s, and, she just kind of prays that it’s not Mouse, with her limbs feeling like iron, lead, and just as worthless.

Maybe she’s thinking about Jules, Sailor Moon, cheeks perking with the kind of doped up grin that could signal love, but no, no, no.... squirm free and alive, fingernails dig as she hears the distant warmth of someone placing a blanket on her, lips parting with the words that her throat CHOKES ON, all of it dissolving fizzy within her mouth, champagne laughter bubbling upwards, outwards, making out within her fielded vision the familiar folds on blue jeans, hardly cut with the luxury you’d expect of a man making the kind of moves he did.

“I’m so happy...” dreamy words feeling, tasting like, velvet within her mouth, moving about the outline of them, spilling outwards too quickly for the rest of Rue to catch up. That’s always been her though, for THE GOOD AND THE BAD, both. “Every time I’ve popped those pills, snorted those lines, I feel... this the kind of high I’ve been searching for...” no wonder, people, chase after this despite the kind of fears that come in the form of PBS ads and warning posters left on bathroom walls. Don’t become a statistic, well, Rue wonders when sadness because the kind of endemic that it did. “Do you ever feel like this? Is this why you do it?”

Fez has always been a homeboy - someone to dial on those late nights when things were coming apart at the seams, someone who always texted, still, even when he’d dropped out of school and found another calling, even when he was going through his own tough times. Grandma can’t walk, can’t see, the mortgage and the bills COMING IN, and he’d had to man up, had to be the one to take the proverbial bull by the horns. Even if he’s doing it high, it’s better than she’s doing, left in bedrooms, retrofit to hospital grade, he’s got the patience of a saint, while she’s popping pills just to dream of another place, another reality.

They used to be into the soft stuff together, with him starting small, just a few grams, they’d smoke the profits and laugh about idiots at the parties that they’d go to. Time, though, it changes people - Rue there UP FRONT AND CENTRE for the process, but she can’t even really be sure about it all. She’s missing a lot of things, and he’s always been there when she needed something heavier, when she wants to load the gun with a weightier high - he always had her, so long as she had the cash.

                                                                 Everyone’s got their hustle, right?

                            Can’t blame nobody for that shit.

Summer’s already scorching hot, and only just beginning; at Fez’s place has a pool, a hand shading her eyes as she blinks, squinty, at the building, her baggy ball-shorts perhaps a terrible choice, but she’s always looking to get lost, whether it’s in her clothes or in her mind. Finger pressing to the buzzer, BZZZZZZZT, a fist coming to pound at the door. “You said we were going swimming!” bike left chained up at the front... can’t be careful out here. Junkies don’t give a fuck, and will steal anything left on its own for the cash for their next hit, herself included.