The Bliss Molecule
“What's he takin'?”
The whole room paused. Wesley rolled his head, sloppy smile plastered on his face, unwavering. He made to fall, but Parish's white knuckled grip on the back of his shirt held him aloft, refused him the comfort of face-down on the soft, dirty carpet. The room tried to pretend they didn't notice the duo in the doorway, but were collectively bad liars and instead highlighted their presence with spotlights of forced ignorance. Someone tried to press play, moved to grab a needle, but made the mistake of catching Parish's glower and retracted his gnarled hand.
“What is he on?”
Every syllable was an accusation. A couple folded together on the sofa lowered their eyes in guilt, one pushed a pill bottle into the crevice between the cushion. His shifting eyes betrayed every movement. Wesley let out a weak laugh and tried again to collapse – he couldn't dream while upright and fantasy was of the essence – but Parish yanked him to the tips of his toes, perhaps with more force than necessary. Wes' smile faltered just a bit from the agitation, and his eyes cleared partially only to cloud again after slurring “What's a' matter?”.
“He's been like this for three hours, what the fuck is he takin'? What did you inbreds give him?!”
A brunette rose slowly from their seat, eying the back door, trying to slink silently out of the room. Parish couldn't distinguish a gender underneath the mat of hair covering their face or the baggy clothes hiding their frame. Opting for male, as not to feel too bad afterward, he threw Wesley on the floor and seized the brunette by the collar. His knife was pressed to their throat – Adam's apple? - before the brunette could even make up their mind to bolt.
“Name.”
“J-Johnny.”
“Good.”
Parish pushed his knife just past the barrier of skin. Red pooled around the tip before gliding down, gathering sweat drops that furthered its journey to the hollow of the collarbone. Their eyes met, a test. 'How dumb are you, really,' he wanted to ask. Seconds ticked by, slow as Monday; this was a timed exam whether Johnny knew it or not. The room was suspended in the midst of action, spurred by Johnny's capture but stalled again by sheer anticipation of fear. Parish ticked down the time limit in his head. Three, two...
“Endo.”
“Endo?!”
The room cried out in in horror and re-animated. A few brave souls made a break for the door, others contemplated escape but decided against the risk of being recovered. A chorus of “Idiot” and “Flithy, snitching rat” rose to the ceiling like a tidal wave and stopped in the same manner. Parish battled the muscles in his wrist against flexing and eventually lowered his arm before he could lose the fight. Johnny scrambled away from the threat of mutilation only to fall backwards into the possibility of murder. He didn't have a single friend left. The room parted around him, accusing eyes burned “traitor” into his skin as if they wouldn't give under the same pressures.
Parish pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and bit down on his lip to keep his anger from spilling out of his throat. He paced a plan into the floor, tried to beat an idea out of his temples with the butt of his knife, to coax any sort of sense out of the situation, but came up with only blank slates and loose ends. It didn't add up.
“How did degenerates like y'all get your hands on Endo? And how the fuck did you get it to my brother?”
Parish's voice rose with every word until his anger was vibrating off the walls and ringing in the air. He risked a glance at Wesley sprawled on the floor like a discarded doll, giggling mad, but felt the pressure rising in his veins and had to turn away. Johnny almost dared to answer but a glare from a stringy blonde laid out on an arm chair muted him. Wesley was a regular at their hole, but they respected him enough – and feared Parish even more – to keep his frequency quiet even though they all knew he had a special place reserved on the loveseat. Underneath the cushions, the pill bottle burned.
Parish continued to try and force understanding. Endo costs a fortune out of the pharmacy, factor in the price of handling plus hikes from demand and there was no way they could afford it. He couldn't even begin to think of a price range.
“You can't get that shit without papers anyway,” he mused to himself. “Not enough to distribute. It can't be pure. No way in hell...”
Parish whipped around and scooped his brother off the floor. The slamming door punctuated their retreat. The room waited a beat before moving again.
“We've got to start locking that door,” half of the couple mumbled while unfolding herself.
The room agreed.
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A/N: This draft is so rough I'm almost embarrassed to have it published. But there it is. Tear it apart.
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