#r001

@crime-scened

Despite a lifetime of being suffocated under her father’s thumb, the memories Ria seemed to be able to conjure up of Misha Alexandrov were few and far between. Admittedly, it was probably for the best. She’d thought little of the man since the world had gone to shit, outside of the occasional wonder if he -- along with the rest of her small family -- were alive, dead, or something else. 

Of the few memories she held onto, the particular image of her father looking irate came to mind -- likely due to the fact that it was an expression he often took with her. Accompanying the somber, disapproving glare was a muttered expletive in his mother language: ёб твою мать. Fuck your mother. It had never been intended as an insult onto Daria, but had rather seemed to be his favored statement to explode with whenever something in his life didn’t fall perfectly into line. Ria had made a lifetime out of not falling perfectly into place for her father. 

She’d never felt like she could empathize with the statement before. 

A month back, she and Erik had hit it big at one of the seedy little pharmacies hiding in Chinatown. When things had been normal, she’d known it to be a reliable spot to score when she needed to get out of the Upper West Side. Even with the dead up and walking, that proved to stay the same -- and they’d come away with real medicine, and a backpack stuffed full of suboxone that Ria had promised would hold her over while she weaned herself off the drugs. If I get dope-sick, I’ll slow us down, she’d explained, and if I get fucked up, I’ll slow us down. This’ll keep me even. 

There were a lot of moments in her life where she wished she could go back and smack herself, but grabbing that bag of subs was definitely a top-five moment. 

Ria had heard about suboxone at the score of rehabs, inpatients, outpatients, and retreats she’d been sent to over the years. She’d been told over and over that it was no better than dope itself -- and that the withdrawal from it was worse than anything heroin did to you. She’d chosen not to believe it. She’d also chosen to go beyond the prescribed dosage routinely over the past month. She didn’t think Erik would notice -- being high had become so much a lifestyle that she couldn’t see much of a difference between who she was high and who she was sober -- and she didn’t think it would matter. The city was overrun, and their days were numbered. But when she was out and the withdrawal started to hit, she was reminded of the fact that she was still very much alive -- and suffering. Her father’s favored saying had come to her then, as her head was bowed over a toilet bowl that no longer had functional plumbing, and she vomited bile for the third time that morning. 

“ёб твою мать.”

Their tenure in the small apartment in the lower east side had been intended as an overnight thing -- but the last twelve hours had brought on the worst of the first wave of withdrawal, and Ria had been in a state of shakes and cramps, plagued with unending nausea on an empty stomach, and reduced with a pounding headache. She'd tried to hide the beginning of it from Erik, and had hoped to push it off by suggesting that they seek out a new pharmacy to hit, on the excuse of needing to stock up before everything was cleaned out. She’d stopped trying to hide it sometime in the last eight hours. From where she was now -- slumped against the bathroom wall and shivering despite the sheen of sweat on her brow -- faking it seemed pretty fucking stupid. Hindsight was 20/20.

Reaching with her foot, Ria kicked at the bathroom door. It creaked open, and she cast a glance into the adjoining room, seeking out Erik. Her eyes never quite met his, but tended to fall just south -- a cheek, nose, or chin was easier to make contact with. There was less shame. 

“I need water,” she uttered hoarsely. “I can move soon. Half an hour, maybe.” 

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