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𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗢𝗨𝗥; Stone on the Road

A/N: Sorry I update slowly. Also I'm gonna try include some angst because I haven't yet.

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❝ Don't say you need me when, you leave and you leave again ❞
Pretty When you Cry, Lana del Rey

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THIRD PERSON'S POV:

December 12th, 1971. 03:44 AM

Bobby hadn't shown up to work for a few days. He hadn't been seen home either, or by anyone in Café Verde.

Another soul, lost to the streets. That was the main image he portrayed. Nobody in the half-way house knew him by his name, and they wouldn't care to either. He didn't try socialise with any of them, if they fell back into the life they might pull him back too. Bobby didn't think he'd be tempted so easily, and didn't think he'd go back to his old ways in his own. At least if someone he knew walked past him & they got chatting, he could blame them.

Maybe it was loneliness that drove him so far from the right road. He was getting less casual with the waitress from across the road, but the more he thought about that blooming relationship the more he felt as if he was going to turn into a burden for her, like a tumour or a parasite. Bobby wasn't a ridiculously prideful character, but he was a shameful one.

He didn't know what time it was. Bobby was lying on the floor, in a cold apartment room. He had just woken up, and was covered in a cold sweat, as if he was fevered. As he came to his senses, his heartbeat steadied, and he wiped the sweat from his upper lip. He had passed out on the floor, and his inner arm veins were cut by track marks, viciously fresh. To his left, on a mold infested mattress someone too was passed out, being hugged by another, also gone. Their mouths were open, then limbs limp and their clothes smelling of god knows what. The walls were falling to bits, and there was murmuring coming from another room.

Bobby sat up, rubbing his eyes. He must've been passed out for a while, he didn't remember it being dark when he conked out; although he didn't remember anything at all about when he lost consciousness.

This was it, as if he'd never gone to jail, or tried turn his life around, he was back here. The warm embrace of heroin was the only embrace he'd ever really felt, and this was where he stooped to to be held by it.

He looked at the two passed out on the bed beside him. They were sleeping peacefully, holding each other loosely. He wondered where Kitty was, if she was in this apartment complex or another nearby. This was close to Chico's turf, if she was anywhere she'd be around here. He got her into this world, and then disappeared. The complete opposite of a saving grace, he wondered if he even deserved a second chance after that scenario.

Bobby stood up, feeling dizzy, he needed water. Stumbling around the semi-familiar apartment, he found his way to the kitchen and lowered his head to drink water straight from the tap. It was probably contaminated or some shit; this was New York; but he couldn't care less.

As he wiped the excess water from his lips, Bobby looked around for the door. He wanted to leave. Post-high clarity, he decided the people who let him lie on the floor unconscious weren't the best to be around. They never had been, and they never will be.

The hallway was colder, and so was the stairway down. It was as if the further he got from his source of a high the colder t he world around him got.

As he stepped out onto the street, a cold chill bit him. It was night time, and would be so easy to slip back inside and go back up to the room and shoot up again, to warm himself in the cold December night.

Something kept him pushing, and he shut the door behind him, stepping down the steps of the complex onto the street. He stumbled a little, and shivered dramatically as he was met with the elements of the open street.