Junkhead

Godsmack

He finally opened the door, grudgingly, glaring at his long lost friend. He appeared to be tired, his eyes halfway closed. His long, scrawny body huddled over as he leaned his head against the frame of his condo doorway. "What?" he growled meekly, breaking the awkward silence.

"Layne. I haven't seen you in months," Mike snapped. His angry demeanor faltered, those brown eyes softening with sympathy as he watched his best friend cower away from him.

This was not fucking Layne, what the hell? Mike thought to himself.

He attempted to push open the door, surprised that Layne allowed him to actually come in this time. It had been months since the last time he hung out with Layne in his condo. Mike Starr watched his friend's now stick-like body slowly limp over to his couch.

He was disturbed by what was happening with Layne. He didn't think Layne was getting this bad. Sean had tried to warn him before coming over... But Sean always seemed to over-react when it came to Layne's drug addiction.

Layne watched his friend of nearly 15 years gape awkwardly at his trashed-out living room. Sighing, he yanked a cigarette from his pack on the coffee table (that was cluttered with spoons, a bowl of bleach with syringe needles resting within, lighters, & baggies of brown & white powder). He lit it, inhaling deeply.

"Mike..." He moaned aloud, his glassy blue eyes sliding back to the scrawny brunette. He eyed Layne wearily, stopping himself from observing how filthy his kitchen was. Layne smiled weakly at him, patting the cushion next to him. "Figured since you haven't seen me in months, you'd like to...oh, I don't know...talk to me instead of staring at the molding food in my kitchen..."

"Dude, it literally looks like it's moving in there. And it smells like horse shit," Mike laughed nervously, slumping onto the couch next to him.

He couldn't help but to stare at Layne. He was shocked by how horrible he looked. His hair was long & matted, his eyes sunk deep into his skull, watery & red. His skin was almost transparent. He was so unbelievably thin. Layne had always been a scrawny guy but DAMN...even under the sweater he was wearing, you could tell he was horribly emaciated. His cheekbones jutted from his face & you could see outlines of his clavicles & ribs through the fabric of his garments. His arms & legs resembled twigs...

Layne laughed anxiously, exhaling cigarette smoke & shrugging at Mike. "What? Am I that handsome?" He kidded. He wet his lips & scowled at himself when his friend didn't laugh at his joke. Instead, mike's eyes widened & filled with tears.

"You...you look..." he paused, shaking his head and yanking a cig out of Layne's pack and lighting it. He glared back into those stoned blue eyes. "Do you have a death wish or something?!" he shrieked, standing up. He pointed a shaky finger at his best friend, trying to fight back the tears. "You look like you haven't slept in a week, you're a walking fucking skeleton, your condo has gone to hell..." He shook his head, taking a seat on the stool across from his couch. As much as he tried to fight it, the tears fell down his cheeks as he took a drag from his smoke. "What in God's name are you doing, Layne? You're better than this..."

Layne glared at his shaking, gloved hand. Shrugging his bony shoulders, he set his cigarette down in the ashtray, leaning over to reach under his coffee table to grab a bottle of Jameson's. He took a nice couple of gulps, attempting to calm down his nerves. Those bony, trembling hands tugged off the black gloves, revealing dull brown bruises from needle probing on them.

He flinched when he heard his friend gasp.  Still, he pressed on, making sure to avoid eye contact. He pulled his sweater off, showing his tooth pick arms to him. They were so thin that his elbows were twice as large in comparison to his bicep & forearm...and they were matted with track marks. Gnarly, bumpy, & purple. When he heard Mike sob again, he stopped himself, his brows curling in desperation as he looked at him.