Broken People

Lenny stared at the ornate Victorian ceiling medallion. It cast a shadow, powered by the streetlight below the bedroom window. In the altered reality, the medallion was awkwardly asymmetrical and seemed to stretch toward the en-suite bathroom. Carefully, he slipped out of the bed and tiptoed along the restored softwood planking. He leaned over the sink and by the light of the street, stared into the mirror. He pulled down at his cheeks and looked closely at the bloody underside of his flesh supporting each eye. He ran a trickle of cold water over his hands and smoothed it over his face. He patted dry with a plush rose hand-towel.

Beside the sink was an open packet of cocaine. Half a gram or so had been dumped on the marble countertop. With a razor blade, Lenny dragged a portion of the tiny pile across the counter allowing a controlled flow of powder to spill around the end of the blade into a uniform line. He divided the line in two and with the short crystal straw, inhaled one half of one line into his right nostril. He wiped his nose and stared once more into the mirror. Then he finished the line with his left nostril. With a wipe and a sniff, he was standing at the foot of the bed.