Mark stared at his reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror, eyes hollow, skin stretched tight across his face. The man looking back at him seemed like a character actor in a zombie show, a shadow of who he used to be. A laugh bubbled up in his throat, dry and humorless. He looked ridiculous. Like some parody of the man he once was—back when he cared about things like how he looked, how people saw him. He rubbed at his face with shaking hands, trying to scrub away the sweat, the grime, the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. The syringe sat on the sink, waiting for him, calling out with that familiar whisper. He hated it, but he needed it.
More than anything.

The clock ticked away on the wall, the sun barely breaking through the gray morning sky. Another day was starting, but time had stopped making sense to him long ago. Days, nights—it all blurred together into one endless stretch of minutes ticking by, lost in a fog of heroin. Once, he could measure his life by a routine—wake up, coffee, work. But those days had slipped away, swallowed by the need for something more, something stronger. Now it was either: was he high, or was he coming down? That’s it. Basic needs like eating, showering, even pretending to care about what was happening outside his apartment—all secondary.

He ran a hand through his tangled hair, feeling the greasy strands cling to his fingers. The emptiness gnawed at him, but he told himself it didn’t matter. Tomorrow. He’d get his act together tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’d get clean, sort his life out, be the man he used to be. He could almost hear his own voice saying the words, the lie so familiar it almost felt like the truth. But tomorrow never came. Not when Mr. Brownstone was waiting.

The apartment around him felt like a cage. It hadn’t always been this way. Once, it had been a sanctuary, a place where he felt in control, where he could escape the chaos of the world. But now, it was suffocating. The walls pressed in closer each day, trapping him in the wreckage of his own life. Clothes were thrown in piles, dishes stacked high in the sink—the remnants of weeks where nothing had been done, because nothing mattered but the next hit.

He remembered how it used to be. Before the heroin. Before things had started to spiral. When he still had a job he cared about, when his friends hadn’t started slipping away, one by one, tired of the excuses, the missed calls, the promises to meet up that never happened. Back then, he could still picture a version of himself that was whole. But that image had shattered long ago, replaced by the addict staring back at him in the mirror.

The heroin sat in its usual place, right where he left it. His heart raced as his fingers hovered above it, that familiar mix of dread and anticipation twisting in his gut. Just one more hit. That’s how it always started—one more to get through the day, to take the edge off. But the edge had vanished long ago. Now, it was just a void, a black hole that sucked everything in and left nothing but hunger.

Mark reached for the syringe, his hands shaking as he prepared it, eyes fixed on the ritual that had become as familiar as breathing. He hated how much he needed this, how deep it had sunk into his bones, into every part of his life. But there was no turning back now. He had tried—God, how he had tried—back when he still believed he had control. Back when he’d tell himself it was just for fun, just a way to take the pressure off, just to keep going. But heroin had stolen that from him too.

The needle pierced his skin with a practiced ease, sliding into the bruised flesh of his forearm as if it were second nature—because it was. The steel tip, dull from repeated use, pushed past the surface, tearing through the layers of his skin. There was a brief resistance, then a sickening, satisfying give, like slicing through ripe fruit. He barely felt it anymore, the sharp sting lost under the hardened leather of his veins, veins that had become highways for poison. His thumb pressed down on the plunger with a deliberate slowness, and that thick, amber liquid surged inside.

The world dimmed at the edges, his vision blurred, softening, like someone had smeared grease on the lens of his eyes. Colors dulled. The dirty light in the room became softer, less offensive, bending and curving, as if he were seeing through the haze of a dream. He could feel the warmth radiating outward from the injection site, crawling up his arm, coiling around his neck, sinking deep into his chest. It was a slow-motion flood, dark and warm and relentless, drowning everything in its path.

His heart, which had been racing with the feverish anxiety that always preceded the hit, began to slow. The pounding in his ears quieted to a low, steady thrum, a distant beat that no longer concerned him. There was nothing to be concerned about now. Everything was fading. The needle was still hanging limply from his arm, the syringe resting lightly against his skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull it out just yet. He liked the feeling—the weight of it, the connection to something that was finally giving him relief.

His muscles, tight from days of tension, unraveled, one by one, until his whole body was slack, melting into the couch like wax left too long in the sun. The ache—the constant, gnawing ache that chewed at him day and night, that lived in his bones and burrowed under his skin—began to dull. It didn’t disappear, not entirely. It never did. But it was distant now, far enough away that he could pretend it wasn’t there. The edges of his consciousness were starting to blur, soft and fuzzy like a photo out of focus, as the heroin worked its way into his bloodstream, blanketing his nerves in something thick and warm.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the blackness behind them, a wave of numbness sweeping him under. It felt like slipping into a deep, warm bath—except this was better. This was pure. The warmth wasn’t just on his skin, it was in him, filling him, spreading like liquid gold through his veins. His fingers twitched, but it felt far away, like they belonged to someone else. Every sensation was muted, dulled. The world outside—the sounds of traffic, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the clock on the wall—disappeared, fading into nothingness.

This was the only place that felt like home now.

The only place where the pain didn’t touch him.

The darkness wrapped around him like a lover, tender and patient, pulling him deeper. There was no time here, no future, no past, just this moment—stretched out, endless. He was weightless, floating, suspended in the warmth, in the numbness. His mind drifted, thoughts dissolving before they could take shape, slipping through his fingers like sand. There were no worries, no regrets. The guilt, the shame—those ugly feelings that clawed at him when he was sober—were gone. Heroin had chased them all away.

There was nothing but this quiet. This peace.

He felt his body sinking further into the couch, his limbs heavy and useless, his eyelids half-open, unfocused. The needle dangled from his arm, and he finally had the presence of mind to remove it, the metal sliding out with a slick, wet sound, leaving behind a pinprick of blood that slowly bubbled to the surface. He stared at it for a moment, fascinated by the tiny bead of red forming on his skin, before wiping it away with the back of his hand. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

For now, the pain was gone. For now, he was free.

And that was all that mattered.

Outside, the city was waking up, cars starting, people heading off to work, their lives moving forward while his slipped further away. He used to be one of them, part of that world. But now? Now he wasn’t even sure who he was anymore.

He thought about how it used to feel—waking up and moving through the day like he had some kind of purpose. Back when life had shape, direction. But that was before. Before Mr. Brownstone. Before this poison started hollowing him out piece by piece. He had lost friends, pushed people away, let his job slip through his fingers, all because of this. Now, it was just Mark and Mr. Brownstone, locked in an endless dance he couldn’t break free from.

The heroin had taken everything from him, and in the stillness, he wondered if there had ever been anything to lose in the first place.

He wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Mark remained looking out of the window, the city buzzing beneath him. The people on the streets looked so small, so far away. He wondered if they ever thought about people like him—the ones trapped in their own minds, prisoners to something they couldn’t escape. Probably not. The world kept moving, and he was just another lost soul, drifting further out to sea with every passing hour.

The day would pass like this—lost in the fog, floating from one moment to the next, chasing a numbness that would never last.

Mr. Brownstone would always be there.