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I can hear the sound of Mister Box two doors down wheeling down towards the mailboxes, and I vacantly wonder if it's really been two Fredais since I'd holed up in this apartment in my panic. Or just... one? How long have I been asleep?
My body aches and I'm covered in a cold sweat as I shift around to kick at the radiator, idly wondering if it's broken or if my body's so lost in withdrawals I've lost the ability to tell hot from cold. My supply of moppy ran out two days ago, that much I know for certain. But how recently I've heard my neighbor's rickety chair squeak past..? That's a mystery.
For a moment I consider food, but I know all too well that the ice box is emptied of anything edible. No. There's nothing of use left in this apartment. The blinds have been drawn to keep out the sunlight, the food eaten and drugs consumed. All that's left is the piles of useless shit for magic I can't use. I haven't left the confines of my apartment building once since I returned home from Marnin's almost a week (or was it two?) ago. His vox unit, and it's mask, are sitting abandoned near the stove, hidden underneath a blanket. I don't know why, but looking at it leaves me feeling guilty. Makes me feel sick.
Or perhaps that's the withdrawals, too. Without the concoctions from the Poth, sleep is almost impossible. Between the nerve pain and searing headaches, I've been blessed with the addition of sporadic seizures. For someone who hasn't done more than walk to the toilet down the hall every day or so, I've never been more exhausted in my life. And the haze of the drugs have long gone, leaving me entirely aware of the shithole I'd dug for myself.
When I hear a sharp wrap at the door, I yell incoherently towards it - the fact I'm not wearing my vox unit never occurring to me as I yell for them to leave it at the door. Though, whatever sounds they could make out, I doubt they sounded anything like what I'd intended.
My body aches and I'm covered in a cold sweat as I shift around to kick at the radiator, idly wondering if it's broken or if my body's so lost in withdrawals I've lost the ability to tell hot from cold. My supply of moppy ran out two days ago, that much I know for certain. But how recently I've heard my neighbor's rickety chair squeak past..? That's a mystery.
For a moment I consider food, but I know all too well that the ice box is emptied of anything edible. No. There's nothing of use left in this apartment. The blinds have been drawn to keep out the sunlight, the food eaten and drugs consumed. All that's left is the piles of useless shit for magic I can't use. I haven't left the confines of my apartment building once since I returned home from Marnin's almost a week (or was it two?) ago. His vox unit, and it's mask, are sitting abandoned near the stove, hidden underneath a blanket. I don't know why, but looking at it leaves me feeling guilty. Makes me feel sick.
Or perhaps that's the withdrawals, too. Without the concoctions from the Poth, sleep is almost impossible. Between the nerve pain and searing headaches, I've been blessed with the addition of sporadic seizures. For someone who hasn't done more than walk to the toilet down the hall every day or so, I've never been more exhausted in my life. And the haze of the drugs have long gone, leaving me entirely aware of the shithole I'd dug for myself.
When I hear a sharp wrap at the door, I yell incoherently towards it - the fact I'm not wearing my vox unit never occurring to me as I yell for them to leave it at the door. Though, whatever sounds they could make out, I doubt they sounded anything like what I'd intended.
