WARNING: Drug use, some bad language

Huhu, here's what's happening while Skelter's being all happy and lovey >D

------------------------------------------

“Uhhn...”

A pause.

“Yeah...”

His left arm no longer twitched. His stomach finally settled. He reluctantly withdrew the needle from the crook of his elbow, setting it down on a small table next to his bed. Yurick was lying on his side, but soon flopped so that he was lying on his stomach. His face hung just before the edge of the bed. His arms dangled off the side of the bed by their elbows. They went numb. Then his chest and stomach. Then his legs. A warm blanket of comfort wrapped around his entire body.

He was high.

A small trickle of blood came down his left arm, dripping silently onto the floor. His mind calmed. He could hear a faint rustling-like sound, like trees in a gentle breeze. He thought he was somewhere else, somewhere comfortable and warm. Completely opposite of the frigid winters of home. Somewhere with fresh air, under a flowering tree, in the middle of summer. That's what it felt like to him. It was so quiet and peaceful. Yet somewhere in the back of his slowing mind, he knew it would all crash to pieces in a few hours.

Every so often he let out a quiet mumble that could have meant anything, everything, or nothing. Nobody was there to listen, and he wouldn't repeat himself anyway. This was his first way of forgetting. Forgetting that he was alone again. It didn't last long, but at least it made him feel good while he forgot. He kept waiting to hear a knock at the door, or footsteps up the stairs. But there was none. Only the quiet scratchings in the walls which he still couldn't place.

Yurick's teal eyes drowsily gazed across his bedroom, but his mind was too clouded by the feeling of peace. Everything was blurred a little. A faint buzz went through his ears, rubbed around his brain, down to his stomach, up to his brain again, and went out his mouth, which was partway open and slightly drooling. He felt on top of the world, but he looked like a brain-dead idiot.

It took two, maybe three hours before he came around again. Yurick lifted his arms, which had gone prickly from the loss of blood, and aims to lift himself off the bed. It took some strength, but eventually he was sitting up again. He let his mind clear more, closing his eyes tightly every so often to wake them up. He rubbed his left arm, which was now slightly sore from the needle's puncture. He used his sheets to rub the dried blood off his arm and fingers. As if the sheets weren't dirty enough. He looked them over. Filthy as ever. That's how everything was. He was used to it by now.

He stood, shakily, stretching and yawning his way to the door. Once into the living room, he just sat down again, turning on the TV. The first thing he saw was news. He flipped through the channels. News, news, weather, news, politics, children's cartoons, news... Nothing he was interested in, not today at least. The news never talked about anything important. Usually updates on some old famous building that was being restored; it was St. Petersburg, after all. The politics were even worse. All about what was happening to the country's economy, mostly. It was true for any nation, and Russia was no exception.

It was a good thing for Yurick that he could afford to receive English-speaking channels as well, either from the UK or America. At least it was something different. Yurick skipped over the British channels, he wasn't in the mood for anything intelligent, bland, or any combination of the two. He flipped slower through the American channels. Still nothing good. Their politics were like everyone else's, all economy. The news was only slightly more interesting. To Yurick's foggy mind, he didn't really care what he landed on, as long as there was a noise in the background. He was bound to fall asleep again anyway. He had nothing to do. Eventually he landed on some survival show.

“Huh,” he grunted in mild amusement. “Siberia.”

***

From that kind of morning, it's not hard to tell that Yurick's life was nothing special. He generally had a routine, and an unhealthy one at that. It usually started with him getting high literally right after he woke up. It's just how it was with him. His addiction became so strong, it had it's own timetable. It was controlling him now. But his addiction to heroine wasn't the only thing with it's own timetable. There were other things. It finally got to the point where they all worked around each other. His days were all the same according to this one, big, mixed up schedule of destruction.

He did end up falling asleep for a few hours. By the time he woke up, it was already noon. The survival show had switched to somewhere in the Caribbean, but he didn't pay it any mind. He was starving. While rummaging through the empty kitchen, he managed to find two pieces of bread. He only spared time to put them in a toaster, then ate them plain. It was clear that he had a shortage of food. It was his fault, he almost never pushed enough time into his schedule for shopping of any kind. He rarely had food in the house. He rarely cleaned. He rarely took care of himself. He was too busy with other things that demanded attention. After wolfing down the two pieces of bread, he suddenly remembered again that he was alone.

Yurick stood. He looked around the kitchen. All was silent aside from the TV going on in the living room. There was nobody here but himself. He felt his heart sink.

“Skelter,” he sighed, talking to himself. “You just came back and now you're gone again...”

Last time they spoke, Yurick told his brother that he was a wreck without him. He wasn't lying. Getting high was only one thing. He proved that by reaching into a cupboard and taking out a bottle of vodka, only two-thirds full. It was time to forget all over again. He went back to the couch in the living room, sitting down and taking multiple drinks straight from the bottle. The buzz from his high was long gone. He soon replaced it with an alcoholic buzz.

“Why did he have to leave, what could be so important,” he continued. “He told me I was killing myself and I told him why. He doesn't fucking listen...” He took a few more drinks from the bottle, and upon taking it away from his lips, he slammed it down onto the coffee table in front of him with an irritated groan. “Come back here, dammit!”

Soon he realized that he was talking to nothing.

He relaxed again, taking the bottle in hand and resting it next to him, his fingers still wrapped around the neck of it. He groaned, this time it sounded more like he was in pain. He hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow, the same elbow he had pierced just this morning. His arm shook and his chest quivered. He bit his bottom lip down. After a few minutes, he finally threw his arm back, pounding it against the back of the couch. Yurick took another drink.

Before he knew it, the bottle of vodka was empty. He stared at it, carefully studying the Russian letters and the clear glass. He threw it to the side carelessly. Yurick didn't have to worry. He didn't have food, but he had plenty of alcohol. He was tipsy, but not drunk. Tipsy wasn't enough. Yurick wanted drunk. Drunk would make him forget.

He stood up, balancing himself for a minute, then stepped carefully back into the kitchen. Once back out, he opened a fresh bottle of wine. He didn't honestly care what kind of alcohol it was, as long as it tasted okay. Again, he just drank it straight from the bottle. There was no need to be fancy about it. He didn't want to enjoy himself with a little wine, he wanted to drink until he couldn't remember why he was drinking in the first place. The first half of the bottle went by faster than he thought. He sat back, feeling the warmth from the alcohol rise into his chest, his cheeks turning red.

It was only after that point that Yurick started to feel his spirits lift. The TV seemed to provide unending amusement now. He finally finished the bottle of wine; it was a smaller bottle. He threw it at the wall forcefully, breaking it into a few large pieces.

“Well fuck Skelter, then,” he slurred. “If going to America's so... so damn important, he can just stay there... I'll just keep going and die so I can spite him.”

He stood up again and took no hesitation to wobble back into the kitchen, bumping his head into the top of the doorpost more than once. This time he only took two bottles of beer. He knew he was drunk, but he still wasn't quite there. The bitter taste of beer was a bit refreshing against the former sweet tasting wine. He finished the two bottles quickly. He had had enough. He lay down on the couch, staring at the TV but not paying attention. His head was swimming. Occasional tears streamed down his flushed cheeks and into the cushions. He was at a loss as far as telling what he was feeling. His emotions all seemed to bleed together.

But one thing was certain, he still felt alone. He didn't have the attention span to think of the cause anymore, but he still felt it. Yurick was missing something, what was it? Or was it a person? Somebody was gone. Or maybe something else. He couldn't place a finger on it no matter how hard he tried. This is exactly what he wanted. The feeling of emptiness but not knowing why. Like nothing changed at all. It was the closest thing he could get to bliss this time. His blood was still content with heroine, even after the effects wore off. Now his blood was drunk. Eventually it would all be filtered and he would have to do something to bring himself back up again.

For now, though, there was a sloshy peace. His body was filled to the brim with warmth and relaxation. Once again, he fell asleep, dreaming silently of his childhood. He remembered the very day he fell in love with Skelter.

***

Yurick awoke again. It was long since dark outside. He started drinking around noon, it was now about 5:30. Yurick snorted, swallowed, then pushed himself off the couch to sit up. He looked at the clock on the wall, then stared at the TV for a while, which was still on the same channel. It took a moment before he registered the moderate pounding in his head. He wasn't sober yet, but he was getting there. It took him about 15 minutes before he found anything to bring the headache down.

It had been a long while since this morning, and his left arm started twitching again to remind him. Yurick instinctively held it down, more to hide it than calm it. His stomach was lurching and his legs felt weak. He was sobering up from everything. He still had nothing to worry about. He had very recently acquired a new amount of heroine for himself. He had many more bottles containing various alcoholic drinks. He could go on like this for a few more days.

He stumbled into his room, still holding onto his arm. He took the same syringe from before, not bothering to replace the needle, and only giving himself a small amount of drugs to calm himself. He sat on his bed for about half an hour. Just sitting there. He finally came around again and went into the bathroom. He hadn't showered in a few days. Even he could be bothered by it. He stripped himself of his shirt and paused to look in the mirror.

It was the only time of the day he could grasp at how unhealthy he really was. His face was pale, blemished, with dark circles around his eyes. His hair was greasy and unkempt. His muscles were thin from starvation. His arms and shoulders were scarred from various things, ranging from past fights to mishaps with needles and broken glass. He stared at himself solemnly. Skelter was right. He had been destroying himself for 16 years.

After showering, Yurick still didn't feel right. He was finally clean after the past few days, but his memory returned to him once more. He was alone. He put on a shirt that was surprisingly clean. He kept cleaning two or three shirts and just cycled around them. The rest of his wardrobe was strewn all around the house. He finally shut the TV off. Now that he still had a bit of heroine to keep him focused, he grabbed a small box. He went out into the porch, which was freezing in this time of year. The windows were all covered in plastic to keep the drafts out, but it was still cold.

Yurick opened the box, taking a cigarette out and lighting it. There he sat, solemnly smoking the white thing in silence. It wouldn't make him forget about Skelter, but it would help him deal with it. It took the edge off, what little edge was left anyway. His thin arms quivered in the cold, but he stayed there, staring into space, taking the occasional puff or two. It took him a few minutes to finish one. He just pulled out another and started on that one. He only smoked about three or four cigarettes a day. It was surprising he could keep the amount so low. When his body craved for another cigarette, he just blocked it out with heroine. When his body wanted more heroine, he blocked it with alcohol. When he wanted more alcohol, he didn't usually bother blocking it.

His second cigarette was out. He crammed the smoldering butt into an ashtray and went back inside. There was nothing left to do but get drunk again. He had another entire bottle of wine ready to be drained. It was larger than the first one he drank today. It would easily make him tipsy again, and that was all he needed this time. Tomorrow would hit him hard though. He would wake up with the full onslaught of a hangover as well as deprivation of heroine. He wondered if he would be able to move at all after waking up to that.

But then he remembered that Skelter was returning home tomorrow. He would help, hopefully. After yelling at Yurick for about an hour, then he would help. Yurick smiled at how easily frustrated Skelter could be. A little hangover would set him off for sure. He knew it was only because he cared. It just reminded him of how badly he was treating himself. Yurick looked around, taking another swig from the bottle of wine that was mentioned earlier. He could stop drinking right now. That was easy enough. But the cigarettes were hard to ignore. The heroine was impossible to ignore. He wondered if it was possible at all to become clean from everything. He would probably die sooner in the process of rehabilitating than if he just kept going on like this.

Yurick pushed the thoughts away with another drink from the bottle. Tomorrow will probably be better now that he knew Skelter would be there. His brother couldn't ignore him forever. He said it himself, he would help him out.

For now, though, all he had was addiction to keep him company.