Day 6
So the truth of the matter was that he'd basically lost two days.
It was not terribly uncommon for someone who suffered from dissociative identity disorder to lose entire vast tracks of time in the way a forest, victimized by slash and burn, lost whole patches of land. Similarly, there were the narcoleptics, who lost time because one moment they were active, and the next they were looking for a warm, soft place to curl up. Jameson's issue was not mental, and it wasn't neurological, a thin distinction most people didn't understand. And yet it was both of them. Chemical and emotional, he had a habit he couldn't kick, so when he lost time, it was a safe bet it was because he had gotten into the heroin or oxy, and was laid out somewhere having the time of his life.
The whole thing had started innocently enough. He'd just gotten done sketching out a set of blueprints (they were only blueprints by grace of having been drawn on blue construction paper), for the rest of the motor club. He had titled it 'The Bank', though he had no clue what the building really was other than a warehouse. He'd carefully marked where there were cameras and spotlights. He'd detailed where there were security guards, or the movement patterns he'd noticed for the ones on foot. Finally, he'd marked down the codes for both an office and a hidden safe. The hard part would be getting a thumbprint. Either they were going to have to try and use some explosives to get in, or they were going to have to kidnap someone. But all of that was going to be discussed at the meeting.
It was nice, in a way, that Jameson didn't have to make any tough calls. If something major came up, he could just put it to vote. He knew what he had to do, and what was expected of him. He'd only briefly had any interaction with a gang, and that had been his father's fault. He'd begun dealing for the older Dade man just into middle school, because it meant extra income, and Jameson had more of a say at home, because he actually contributed. Of course, where the patriarch of the Dade house was likely to blow his cash on drugs for his personal stash or at the casinos, most of Jameson's went to paying bills. He'd actually never touched anything too hard until Max. Max was Jameson's first love, and he was, at best, a touchy subject.
Max had been a golden boy. He'd been born with opportunity, money, and a natural inclination for athleticism. After Jameson had gotten done with him, the both of them were homeless, and Max was choking on his own vomit. The overdose and death had been the motivating factor for Jay's attempts at change. He'd tried, prior to his death, to get clean, and it had lasted about six months. Then he'd gotten attacked, and everything else was history.
So with a pretty ample history of working with substances, Jameson had decided he could just give himself a little, and be perfectly fine. Jameson's bread and butter was meth. The rush was unbeatable, and he took small doses to get that adrenaline kick to the heart that made him good at his job. Meth was better than crack, which Jameson knew through experience. For one, that electricity in his veins lasted nearly twice as long. Which meant he could get away with taking little bits of it at a time throughout the day, and not have to worry about crashing or tweaking. Most users were stupid. They binged on huge doses for days. At least, that was how Jameson saw it.
But a heroin high was different to a meth high. For one, it was more sensual. Slower. It was like the whole world got put on pause, and all the sounds were muffled, but every other sense was at its peak. You could feel things during a heroin high you couldn't feel any other way. So while meth was his bread and butter, heroin was the treat he saved for himself once he'd done a good job. A reward. For two days, he'd been curled up in bed, barely moving, barely doing anything but sleeping or retreating into his own mind. In that time, he'd reached for the syringe over and over again. It was something he could share with Grey, compounded by the looks of reproach whenever Jameson tried to crawl away from the nest of pillows and sheets and blankets; it was enough to keep him there.
Finally, on Friday, he decided it was time to get up and get something done. The MC was scheduled to meet again soon, and Jameson had a list of locations to check off. He had no doubt the buildings Moo Goo had given him were just the tip of the iceberg, though. The battle ahead was going to be a long run. A marathon instead of a sprint.
He showered first, nude with the hot water beating down onto him. It steamed the glass in the bathroom, not that he needed it to check his appearance, but it scalded his skin, and that was the point. He wasn't particularly worried about keeping clean most of the time, but when he did wash up, he binged on the soap, and the smell, and the scrubbing. A half hour later, he was using a towel like sandpaper to scrape himself dry, massaging the wet folds of the lackluster rag into his hair to get out as much moisture as he could. He got ready next, throwing on as many layers as he could, starting with a local band t-shirt, a flannel shirt, a hoodie, a jacket, and then his cuts. He pulled on briefs and two pairs of thermal underwear (which he kept around for winter), and then a pair of jeans. Even with clothes on under them, his legs still looked stick thin. But he'd come to accept he would never fully fill out his clothes years before, and these days it was just something he barely noticed and only occasionally wryly acknowledged.
He wore a thick wooly cap under his hood and rainbow gloves to match rainbow stripe socks. Boots came next, and they were insulated. So thusly girded with enough insulation to cold proof a small apartment, he set onto the street with his small sketch pad in one hand and his pencil in the other. He had at least ten places to check out, and any he could confirm as housing Triad activity he would need to give a more thorough look. Which meant he was going to be spending some more time as a rodent. Oh well. At least he'd remembered to bring the ******* leather polish.
It was not terribly uncommon for someone who suffered from dissociative identity disorder to lose entire vast tracks of time in the way a forest, victimized by slash and burn, lost whole patches of land. Similarly, there were the narcoleptics, who lost time because one moment they were active, and the next they were looking for a warm, soft place to curl up. Jameson's issue was not mental, and it wasn't neurological, a thin distinction most people didn't understand. And yet it was both of them. Chemical and emotional, he had a habit he couldn't kick, so when he lost time, it was a safe bet it was because he had gotten into the heroin or oxy, and was laid out somewhere having the time of his life.
The whole thing had started innocently enough. He'd just gotten done sketching out a set of blueprints (they were only blueprints by grace of having been drawn on blue construction paper), for the rest of the motor club. He had titled it 'The Bank', though he had no clue what the building really was other than a warehouse. He'd carefully marked where there were cameras and spotlights. He'd detailed where there were security guards, or the movement patterns he'd noticed for the ones on foot. Finally, he'd marked down the codes for both an office and a hidden safe. The hard part would be getting a thumbprint. Either they were going to have to try and use some explosives to get in, or they were going to have to kidnap someone. But all of that was going to be discussed at the meeting.
It was nice, in a way, that Jameson didn't have to make any tough calls. If something major came up, he could just put it to vote. He knew what he had to do, and what was expected of him. He'd only briefly had any interaction with a gang, and that had been his father's fault. He'd begun dealing for the older Dade man just into middle school, because it meant extra income, and Jameson had more of a say at home, because he actually contributed. Of course, where the patriarch of the Dade house was likely to blow his cash on drugs for his personal stash or at the casinos, most of Jameson's went to paying bills. He'd actually never touched anything too hard until Max. Max was Jameson's first love, and he was, at best, a touchy subject.
Max had been a golden boy. He'd been born with opportunity, money, and a natural inclination for athleticism. After Jameson had gotten done with him, the both of them were homeless, and Max was choking on his own vomit. The overdose and death had been the motivating factor for Jay's attempts at change. He'd tried, prior to his death, to get clean, and it had lasted about six months. Then he'd gotten attacked, and everything else was history.
So with a pretty ample history of working with substances, Jameson had decided he could just give himself a little, and be perfectly fine. Jameson's bread and butter was meth. The rush was unbeatable, and he took small doses to get that adrenaline kick to the heart that made him good at his job. Meth was better than crack, which Jameson knew through experience. For one, that electricity in his veins lasted nearly twice as long. Which meant he could get away with taking little bits of it at a time throughout the day, and not have to worry about crashing or tweaking. Most users were stupid. They binged on huge doses for days. At least, that was how Jameson saw it.
But a heroin high was different to a meth high. For one, it was more sensual. Slower. It was like the whole world got put on pause, and all the sounds were muffled, but every other sense was at its peak. You could feel things during a heroin high you couldn't feel any other way. So while meth was his bread and butter, heroin was the treat he saved for himself once he'd done a good job. A reward. For two days, he'd been curled up in bed, barely moving, barely doing anything but sleeping or retreating into his own mind. In that time, he'd reached for the syringe over and over again. It was something he could share with Grey, compounded by the looks of reproach whenever Jameson tried to crawl away from the nest of pillows and sheets and blankets; it was enough to keep him there.
Finally, on Friday, he decided it was time to get up and get something done. The MC was scheduled to meet again soon, and Jameson had a list of locations to check off. He had no doubt the buildings Moo Goo had given him were just the tip of the iceberg, though. The battle ahead was going to be a long run. A marathon instead of a sprint.
He showered first, nude with the hot water beating down onto him. It steamed the glass in the bathroom, not that he needed it to check his appearance, but it scalded his skin, and that was the point. He wasn't particularly worried about keeping clean most of the time, but when he did wash up, he binged on the soap, and the smell, and the scrubbing. A half hour later, he was using a towel like sandpaper to scrape himself dry, massaging the wet folds of the lackluster rag into his hair to get out as much moisture as he could. He got ready next, throwing on as many layers as he could, starting with a local band t-shirt, a flannel shirt, a hoodie, a jacket, and then his cuts. He pulled on briefs and two pairs of thermal underwear (which he kept around for winter), and then a pair of jeans. Even with clothes on under them, his legs still looked stick thin. But he'd come to accept he would never fully fill out his clothes years before, and these days it was just something he barely noticed and only occasionally wryly acknowledged.
He wore a thick wooly cap under his hood and rainbow gloves to match rainbow stripe socks. Boots came next, and they were insulated. So thusly girded with enough insulation to cold proof a small apartment, he set onto the street with his small sketch pad in one hand and his pencil in the other. He had at least ten places to check out, and any he could confirm as housing Triad activity he would need to give a more thorough look. Which meant he was going to be spending some more time as a rodent. Oh well. At least he'd remembered to bring the ******* leather polish.
