Feed The Flame

By: J3T

Bay,7^th grade

            The sun filtered through the grey clouds of L.A., and placed one of its musty, golden fingers across Max’s eyes. Twitching uncomfortably in his sleep, his light brown eyes slowly opened.

            The world around him was blurry and unfamiliar. Blinking several times to try to will away the smoky haze of sleep that clouded his vision, he had the nagging doubt that something was wrong. There was a dull throbbing that coated his body like a blanket, but he was unable to locate the source.

Blinking several more times, Max became aware of the scorching feeling that coated his throat, and the beads of sweat that were pouring down his face. The haze cleared a bit, and he was now able to better pin-point where the throbbing was coming from. He knew something was different… he just didn’t know what it was.

Lifting his left arm to wipe the cloudy mist that coated his eyes, Max was able to discern strangely colored shapes on his wrist. Staring fixedly at it with a puzzled expression on his face, it then dawned on him as slowly as the sun might cover the moon in an eclipse.

The syringe had been plunged deeply into one of his main arteries on his wrist, and a small trickle of blood was dripping down his arm. He became faintly aware of several other throbbing scars on both limbs, some oozing blood, and a sudden rush of memories came over him.

He had spent last night shooting up, it seemed. Looking around him, he noticed several empty vodka bottles littering the alley floor in which he had apparently passed out. He must have been drinking as well; that explained the splitting headache that was wracking his tormented brain.

Suddenly, it felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. Doubling over, he proceeded in vomiting all over his shoes. Panting, his face pale and sweaty, he groaned in disgust. Grabbing a nearby newspaper, he tried scraping the horrible-smelling sick off. The newspaper quickly became soggy, and he gagged. The only thing he regretted about drinking is that in the morning he always had a killer hangover. Other than that, he indulged in it greatly.

He then remembered the syringe in his arm, and swiftly yanked it out, a stream of blood and plasma following it. Shivering, he leaned against the wall, his hands clenched into fists. He could barely remember last night. It was becoming a pattern; but a pattern he certainly didn’t mind at all.

The sunlight struck him in the eyes again, and he squinted. His head gave a painful throb, and his stomach another gentle wave of nausea, and he groaned. Using the wall for support, he clambered to his feet, wiping his sweaty brow as he did so. Kicking a few empty bottles out of the way with a clatter, he began to trudge down the sidewalk.

As he tried glaring through the mist in his eyes from the powerful drugs, he noticed someone approaching him at a fast pace. They seemed vaguely familiar, and he tilted his head in confusion. The smoky haze that coated his brain didn’t seem to be parting to allow him to remember.

Derek’s breath was coming out in ragged puffs as he charged down the sidewalk, his heart pumping furiously to try to catch up with his speed. Max had disappeared again last night, and the rest of the boys were worried, especially him.

They all knew that Max would slip away to drink and shoot the night away, and it scared Derek sick. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he began to run faster. It especially terrified him that he never knew whether he would find Max dead that morning or not.

Since he was the youngest in the gang, he found it hard to keep his emotions in check. The other boys had somehow hardened themselves beyond expression, and they always remained cool and calculating. Derek had never understood that. And, because of his apparently ‘unbalanced’ emotions, it was always easy to tell how he felt, which was usually either worried or angry. As of now, he was both. He hated it that the rest of the gang always assumed he needed help with everything that he did, just because he was the youngest and the most headstrong. In his anger, he began to run faster, silently hoping that Max would be alive.

Suddenly, he found himself splayed out on the pavement, dazed. Looking up, he saw the lean, lanky form of his best friend.

“Max!” He cried, trying to hide the happiness in his voice. Startled, Max looked down.

“Oh, hey, Derek. What’re you doing here?” He mumbled. Even from on the ground, Derek could smell the alcohol still lingering on his breath. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“You alright, man? Need a hand?” Max said, offering his left. Derek immediately jumped up, not bothering to accept the help.

“Yeah, man, I’m fine.” He said, giving a half-hearted grin. Suddenly, he noticed Max’s bloodied arm.

“Dude… what is that?” He asked, pointing. Max reddened, though the only way it showed was the slightest darkening of his sickeningly pale cheeks.

“It-it’s nothing, man…” The older boy mumbled, looking down as he tried to hide his arm behind his back. The scars were impossible to conceal in short sleeves.

As Derek examined him some more, he felt his stomach churn. Max’s shoes were coated with a thin film of what looked like vomit, and his face was pock-marked and white. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles. And then, there were his eyes.

His normally bright brown eyes would hold a captivating sparkle to them, and they could be excited and cheerful one moment, and dark and stormy the next. But now… now there was always a thin mist of inebriety and mysterious ecstasy over them, and they never seemed to smile, just like their owner. They were always bloodshot and puffy, as though Max had been crying, and looked almost infected. Within his cloudy eyes there burned a flame of addiction, one that seemed to never be fully quenched. Derek gave an involuntary shiver. Max didn’t notice.

“Come on, man. Let’s get to the party. Charlie’s been waiting for us, and I’m already late.” The younger boy mumbled. Max’s expression then darkened, and he roughly shoved Derek out of the way, and proceeded in storming down the sidewalk, his eyes flaming. Derek stumbled after him.

As he made his way down the sidewalk, Max pushed anyone who got in his way to the pavement, ignoring the angry cries and curses that followed him. He couldn’t see them anyways, for his eyes had misted up with desire and craving. His throat burned with the need for a single drop of the substance he required, any form of alcohol, no matter how weak. The fire traveled slowly from his throat to the rest of his body, concentrating itself on his heart, eyes, and mind, the flames licking at his thoughts and turning them to black ash. All he could think about now was the sanctuary of relief that awaited him.

Derek could barely keep up with the pace of Max’s long legs, and had to run hard to keep step, dodging people left and right, trying not to lose sight of his best friend. After a sudden burst of speed, he was directly next to Max, his heart beating quickly to try to catch up with his frantic breathing. Looking at his friend, he caught a glimpse of the ravaging fire that was coursing through Max’s veins. The sheer intensity and rage in them caused Derek’s eyes to prickle with tears.

He knew that Max could never seem to even chisel a tiny hole in his addiction, no matter what the gang said; and he also knew that Max was prone to severe fits of rage whenever under the influence. But he had never seen his eyes blaze like that before, and he feared for the safety of both him and his best friend. Bad things were prone to happen whenever Max had recently shot up or went on a drunken binge, and Derek had no idea what might happen at Charlie’s. He knew there would be alcohol there, there always was, and he knew that Max would drink himself to death if given the chance… maybe today would be the last day he lived. Derek cringed at the thought.

Meanwhile, as he charged through the streets, Max’s mind was elsewhere. He longed for the comfort a bottle of vodka or a whiff of marijuana could do for his senses, and his memories of last night began to filter through the cloak of his hangover.

The memories triggered an immediate response from his frenzied brain. He loved the sudden rush of sensations that washed upon him from the single injection of a syringe, the misty comfort that came from the sweet-smelling smoke he craved, and the mind-crippling effects of a single breath of it. The fire behind his eyes grew stronger, and he unknowingly gripped his freshly scarred arm, causing a trickle of blood and plasma to ooze down his wrist.

Derek had never felt more distanced from his friend in his life than he did at that moment. It had never been this bad before. He was the only one of the boys that had never had some form of addiction. Mostly for them it was almost like a phase, alcohol one week, drugs the next. But none had ever gone as far as Max had, for them it was like a fad. Max disappeared every night to indulge himself with heroin, cocaine, and vodka. It bothered Derek that any of his friends had addictions, but Max especially. It was much easier to OD with syringes rather than normal consumption, which was what the other boys had always done. And when Max got drunk, he got angry. Incredibly angry. Derek wished he could run ahead to Charlie’s to warn him to hide the booze. However, he couldn’t, for they were already there.

The loud rap music blaring through the speakers inside could be heard from two houses over. As they got closer, Max’s pulse began to quicken and his head to throb painfully. White flashes appeared randomly across his vision, and the fire flared.

Derek deliberately stalled on approaching the door, but Max shoved him roughly ahead after a short, silent argument. Stumbling, Derek clambered up the steps, Max on his heels. He was jittery with excitement, eager for the vodka that awaited him in the coolers inside. Before Derek could open the door though, their pal Felix crashed through it, a half-empty beer in his hand.

“Heeeyy, guys!” He slurred, his arm wiggling around in the air as an attempt at a wave. The music blasted even louder through the open door. Derek winced, Max’s fists clenched in rage.

Felix gave a slow, loud laugh, and took a big guzzle of beer. Swaying sideways, he fell against the banister, using his arm to prevent him from being smacked in the head.

“G-get in there, yo-you guys! The-” He stopped, wavered slightly, then resumed speaking in even more slurred tones.

“The beer’s GREAT!” And with a dramatic flourish, he threw the bottle across the yard and proceeded in vomiting over the rail and into the bushes next to the stairs.

Derek grimaced. Max’s eyes lit up, and he gave a grim smile. Pushing Derek out of the way and onto Felix’s still retching form, he barged into the house. Derek patted Felix on the back in a comforting manner, and followed his friend inside.

Charlie was sitting on a stool by the kitchen counter, drinking a beer and laughing at his own joke. Max stormed over, his former smile replaced by a teeth-grinding scowl. Charlie looked up, but was roughly grabbed by the collar, causing his beer to crash to the floor.

“Where’s the booze?” Max snarled, the flame waiting impatiently as it turned his thoughts ashen black. Charlie, who was the only one tough enough to get an attitude about Max’s alcoholism, gestured with his head towards several large blue coolers by the bathroom door.

“Knock yourself out.” He mumbled as Max immediately dropped him roughly back onto his barstool. Derek had watched the whole scene with increasing anxiety, his heart in his ears as he saw his friend head towards the coolers.

Cracking the lid off, Max grabbed a beer from within the ice. Having no need for a bottle opener, he took the cap off with his hand. It landed with a clatter at Derek’s feet. He could feel his eyes well up with tears of anger.

Max downed beer after beer, until he reached in the cooler and felt only ice. Snarling, he sped over to where Charlie was sitting at the counter.

“You got anything stronger?!” He demanded, ignoring the crippling pain in his head and stomach. The music seemed even louder now. Derek watched, frozen with rage. His fists clenched, and his nails dug into his palms.

“Psh, not for you!” Charlie scoffed, rolling his eyes. There was a shout from across the room.

“Yeah, only the well-behaved get vodka!” One of the gang, Kody, cried, brandishing the bottle full of clear liquid.

Growling fiercely, Max stormed over, the fire flaring dangerously. His heart pounded faster, adrenaline stormed through his veins faster than a fresh injection.

Kody began to laugh raucously as he took a swig, only to have it violently snatched out of his hand by Max. Kody gave a cry, and reached uselessly for the bottle.

Max scowled, his eyes scorching. Kody backed away, away from the dim, misty brown eyes that could seem to drill holes through anyone’s bravery. Max gave a grim smile, though it was barely just a crack in the white stone of his pockmarked face. His throat burned, and he took a drink.

As his friend chugged down the vodka, Derek felt a single tear roll down his cheek. He was throwing his life away. That was all it was, and that was the only explanation he needed. Another tear fell.

Where his nails met the skin of his clenched fist, blood dripped through his whitened knuckles. His heart pumped, and his vision turned red. And suddenly, he was there; grabbing the bottle and throwing it to the ground with a smash, gritting his teeth as he tried to stop the rage that coursed through his veins.

Everyone stared at the spectacle, their mouths agape. Max’s face darkened, and he frowned. Derek stiffened, and he suddenly found himself shoved against the wall, his ability to breathe being restricted by a pair of hands around his neck.

He curled his hands tightly around Max’s collar, even though he knew it made no difference. The blood dripped down his shirt, but Max didn’t seem to notice.

“What do you want from me, Derek?!” He screamed, his voice hoarse. Derek almost gagged from the strong stench of alcohol on his breath. Sweat poured down his face, and he gritted his teeth with rage. No words came out of his mouth in response.

“Why won’t you let me just live my life?! You can’t do anything to control me!” Max roared, his eyes blazing. It felt as though the flames were shooting sparks from his eyes.

“Don’t mess with me anymore, Derek! Just leave me alone!” His hands unconsciously tightened around Derek’s throat. The whole room was staring at them, shocked into silence by the sudden outburst.

The only sound in the room now was Max’s heavy breathing. The fire burned in his mind, and his stomach clenched painfully as though he was about to vomit. He bit his lip to stifle the pain.

Derek had looked down to avoid Max’s misty gaze as he screamed. He now looked up, and Max felt a throbbing pain within him.

Tears were dripping slowly down Derek’s cheeks, his brow furrowed with anger. He tightened his grip on Max’s collar, the blood turning his shirt almost black.

“… I hate it, Max.” He said quietly, due to his throat being constricted further by his friend’s hands. His voice was thick with rage.

“I hate it!” He screamed, and Max gave him another shove against the wall, causing Derek to wince.

“I hate it that you’re throwing your life away! You’ve got so many years ahead of you, and you want to end it all now! I remember you used to talk about your future all the time, but you never said you wanted to be some crazy addict!” Derek’s voice was cracking, and the tears began to flow faster. The flame increased dangerously in ferocity, and Max ground his teeth together, saying nothing. It felt as though his insides were being shredded apart.

 “Why can’t you go back to the way you used to be?! You used to be my friend, Max, but not anymore! I want the old Max back, not this drugged-up phony! I hate you, Max! I hate you!!” His voice shattering on the last syllable, Derek broke into angered sobs, the tears pouring down his cheeks like the rain in a hurricane.

Despite the feeling that his soul was being ground into dust, Max brought his arm back and slugged Derek right in the face. Falling to the ground, the shreds of the vodka bottle slicing his arm, Derek began to cry even harder. Charlie rushed to his side, a mixture of worry and rage painted on his face. He glared at Max, whose breathing was becoming erratic and whose heart was pounding with rage. He throat gave a painful flare. He needed drugs, and quickly.

Charlie’s rage could not be cloaked by his words.

“Get out!!” He screamed at Max, propping Derek up as he tried to pick out the shards of glass from his torn arm. Derek’s face was coated with tears, blood dripping down his arm. It sounded as though he was trying to speak, but only sobs came out. Everyone else stared, awestruck.

Max snarled and stormed out the door, shoving people out of the way as he did so. Derek weakly reached a bloody hand after him, but it then dropped to the floor. Charlie barked at someone to grab a rag, and his order was immediately filled by some miscellaneous partygoer who had snapped out of their daze. Charlie began to tenderly mop the blood, sweat, and tears off of his friend, gnawing his lip as he did so.

“You okay, kid? He hurt you pretty bad…” Charlie murmured as he wiped the cuts clean of the flowing red liquid. Derek’s voice was quiet but hoarse when he spoke.

“W-we have to go after him… he-he’s gonna hurt himself…” He mumbled, his voice slurred with pain, the tears still oozing out of his eyes. His cheek stung from the punch, and his arm was numb.

Charlie reassured him that Max was going to be fine. He ignored his own worry by convincing himself that it was just some of Derek’s delirious mumbling, and continued wiping the sweat off Derek’s face. He did hope that Max was okay, for Derek’s sake…

Max stormed past a passed-out Felix. He charged down the street, ignoring the throbbing pain in his hung-over brain from the sunlight and the flame that was turning his insides to ash. He headed towards the alley he had passed out in last night, where he knew that his most recent stash of drugs was kept. He convinced himself he had gotten an adequate enough buzz to survive the injection he was going to give himself.

Derek’s words ran through his frenzied, burning mind as he rifled through a pile of used syringes for a fresh one. The needles tore at his skin, ripping holes in his already scarred skin. Finally, he found one.

With a grim smile, he quickly mixed up some powdered heroin with a bottle of water he had bought and filled the syringe to the brim. Placing the needle directly above the main vein in his wrist, he looked to the sky, sweat streaming down his face. The flame flared once, as if to remind him of his goal and to encourage him on.

With a sigh, Max then roughly shoved the needle directly into his vein. No words can describe his scream of combined pain and happiness. It felt as though his throat was being shredded apart. He bit his lip hard, causing blood to trickle down his chin.

The heroin coursed through his veins, speeding towards his heart and turning his ashy mind into a race between his senses and his survival. His senses faded one by one, until he felt himself drift into a peaceful darkness.

Before the tendrils of drugs could wrap their way around his heart, two words escaped his sweaty, bloodied lips.

“Goodbye… Derek.”

Derek wandered aimlessly through the streets. He felt as though he couldn’t cry anymore. He had found Max yesterday, dead in an alley. The doctors concluded from their autopsy that it had been an overdose. Derek had never cried more before in his life.

The cremation was the next day. The rest of the boys were there, even Felix, who had a killer hangover. Every one of them admitted to crying during the burning. Derek couldn’t watch it. He didn’t want to see his best friend be consumed by the flame that had killed him in the first place.

He regretted the harsh words he had said to Max. He thought about how horrible it must have been to have the last words spoken to you by your best friend being how much they hated you. He felt as though it was his fault that Max was dead. In fact, he was completely convinced of it.

Suddenly, Derek stopped in the middle of the street. Next to him was the very alley where he had found Max. His heart throbbed with the pain of the memories. He didn’t want to go in there, not even go near there, ever again.

But then, something caught his eye. It was a lone syringe, lying apart from the rest. He walked over to it, and picked it up. It gleamed in the sunlight, and he squinted. Sitting against the wall, he looked closely at it. There was still some heroin in it, he noticed. Temptation overwhelmed him, and it won.

Tentatively holding it above his arm, he injected the needle slowly through his skin. Wincing with pain, he pushed down on the plunger.

The sudden rush of heroin into his system made him scream with pain. His brain felt like it was being ripped apart, and his heart pounded faster and faster until it felt as though it would burst from his chest. His mind deflated as the drugs took over his senses. Sweat streamed down his face. Gasping for breath, he bit his lip, trying to will away the painful effects of the heroin. He wanted it to end… he wanted to end it all.

And then the flame consumed him.