No one ever thought Spencer would develop a drug addiction, not even himself. Having a sick mother, he was the type to overachieve and go out of his way to always be on his best behavior. He had never once not put school and his sick mother before anything else in his life, even himself. Even though his addiction wasn't his fault, it had spiraled out of control so much, so that he had moved on to other stronger drugs when dilaudid wasn't giving him his “kick” anymore. Spencer tried out heroin, oxycodone, fentanyl, and even cocaine a few times. His favorite was the fentanyl. It numbed him- both his physical and emotional pain. It created a high so spectacular, it took him back to before the torture. Before the scars, before the melancholy, before the sickness and the sadness. Even though the drugs possesses such a calming effect, Spencer would be lying if he said he didn’t want to go back to before it started, before he was tortured. He longed for one more time to start over, but be knew he would never get that, so he followed the path of drugs deeper and deeper, until it killed him.
The weather hadn’t been very kind to Spencer that night. The rain plummeted down against his thin, raggedy coat. He sighed and wrapped the coat around his emaciated, shivering body. He silently cursed himself for selling his warmest, elegant coat for more drugs. It was the last thing he had after he had been evicted from his apartment for failing to pay the rent. After all, which was more important, drugs or warmth?
The shivering man trudged over to a nearby bench. The slow, exhausted walk was all he was able to manage these past few days. It wasn't any surprise, he couldn't remember the last time he had had a proper meal, and the only thing he was getting by on these days were cheap loaves of bread and soup from kind volunteers at the soup kitchen. A sharp hunger pang reminded him he needed more food.
Putting his hunger aside, Spencer wiped the water droplets off of the bench. He then laid his skinny body on top of it, cringing when his exposed hip bone dug into the harsh, cold metal. It would have to do for now, though, there weren't any other options. He couldn't stand the environment of the homeless shelter, as it had been too chaotic (and not to mention, he was on the brink of being kicked out for fighting over drugs). He didn't want to lay out in the streets, since no one ever gave him anything, and he had been stepped on quite a few times, mostly from unruly teenagers who had nothing better to do with their lives.
Spencer closed his red, tear-stained eyes that had been through so much, yet still had a hint of his soft, kind personality left in them. He slept on that bench for way less time than he needed, but it wasn't his fault. He had been plagued by nightmares again, where he was being tortured by Tobias Hankle. Spencer sat there, struggling not to close his eyes. Every time he did, the images of Tobias Hankle beating him- killing him, flooded his memories. These nightmares started up again just a few days ago, (to accompany his growing weakness) and he was sick of it. The brunette knew what he had to do- the only thing that brought him comfort and a release from his horrible life nowadays.
Spencer’s skeletal hand slipped inside his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a syringe, along with a tiny bottle of his drug of choice. He smiled as he took it out and read the name. Tonight it will be fentanyl. When he experienced flashbacks on fentanyl, they were happier ones, not involving his father, nor his mother when she was in her depressive, psychotic state. Spencer’s smile returned in the form of a smirk when he thought about what would happen this time. Eager to find out, he unscrewed the bottle and overfilled the powerful drug into the syringe. Still wearing a smirk, he placed the needle into his bulging veins, which were so easier to find nowadays after he had lost most of his fat and muscle.
He sighed in relief as he felt the drug pass through his system. He leaned his sickly body against the bench, and closed his eyes, neglecting to take the needle out. The drugs he abused had stolen many things from him, including his memory. It was still great, (for the most part) but his eidetic memory was a thing of the past.
The brunette kept his eyes shut as he felt his pulse decrease. As every second went by, his breathing slowed too, with keen senses of discomfort and difficulty accompanying it. Despite being in a relaxed position, he experienced a spinning sensation near his head, and felt his surroundings start to shake. By this point, Spencer wasn't able to open his eyes. The drug had sent him into a relaxing flashback, of him and his friend, JJ, when she had went to his apartment shortly after he was released by the paramedics. JJ had always been there for him, so why wasn't she here now? Whatever amount of anger he could manage to harbor seeped out into his dying state. His initial tranquil memory violently twisted into a sorrow, gloomy one. His anger had been abandoned, because all he could think about was how he had felt in the aftermath of his torture- how he had tried to cry, to release his sadness, but just couldn't, because he was so sad, so full of gloom that he just couldn't.
Spencer used up the precious time he had left on earth to think of his mother. He just wanted to be with her one last time, and tell her how much he's sorry for committing her to that hospital. He knew how much she despised hospitals, medication and living life with a lack of freedom. He just wanted to be read to one more time. One more time for medieval stories, one more time with the team, one more time with JJ, and one more time to start over.
Using all the strength left in his exhausted, freezing body that now donned a bluish tint, he curled up into a ball on the hard metal bench. It was the only thing he could think of to comfort himself, and even though he was about to die with no dignity, it felt good for a few seconds, until he took his last breath, and thought,
I just want one more time.