Diamond City Trilogy

Chapter 8: Addict

Fresco groaned and rolled over. Unable to catch himself as he fell, he landed hard on something gritty and wet. His head burned, his whole body on fire. Trembling overcame him as he struggled to come to. He was seized by emptiness and a massive hunger for something unidentified.

Fresco ran his dry, swollen tongue over cracked lips and teeth, crusty and burnt tasting. He was long in need of a toothbrush. His hot cheek rested for another moment on the cold damp of the ground. At last he opened his eyes and tried to focus.

His first vision was of grass wet with rain. It glistened just past his nose on the other side of the dirty gray paving stone. Only one buzzing streetlight pushed back the black of the night. Heavy clouds obscured the stars. Fresco lay there for a while, watching a collection of moths throw itself in a swirling dance against the florescent bulb, struggling with his mind, trying to understand. He had been in the City. Hadn't he? Fresco moaned as his mind flickered to the memory of the pain, refusing to settle there, like the poor, lost insects beating themselves to death in the uncaring light. His thoughts touched the edges of the past before fluttering away again.

It took him four tries to lever himself into a seated position. He leaned his back on the park bench and pulled his legs up, using what little energy he had in those simple acts. He crossed his arms over his knees, resting his head there as the shaking grew worse. It faded as his strength began to return. The ache within increased as it did. Fresco cried out when an alien hunger seized him, his voice hoarse, throat rasping from overuse. The power of the craving gaped, an incredible, jagged wound, begging to be filled or it would devour him instead.

Fresco had no idea how to feed it.

He spotted a small, concrete building huddled alone in the black. He made it there somehow, at times crawling on his hands and knees when falling left him breathless. The door of the public washroom was locked. It took some time for his fog-riddled mind to register his pushing and pulling efforts were useless. By then, he was strong enough to stand without help, knees locking to hold his swaying weight. Overcome with frustration, conformity deserted him as the law-abiding Fresco found and picked up a rock.

It took three strikes to shatter the lock, and he was in. He staggered into the dimly lit florescence, nose full of the reek of old urine and mold, feet slipping on the damp, greenish tiles. Fresco made it to a sink and leaned against the cracked and stained porcelain. He glanced up and drew a sharp breath at his reflection in the unflattering light.

A gaunt, filthy, hollow-eyed boy stared back at him. With this recognition, his awareness flooded back.

What the hell happened to me? He touched his sunken cheeks with dirty fingertips, still doubting the wraith in the mirror was him. His heart skipped an unhealthy beat as the starving need gnawed at his insides. I don't even know where I am.

Bits and fragments of memory slipped through. The accident. The sobbing child I held on the sidewalk. Daniel. Fresco shook his head. Daniel was dead, killed by his addiction. Fresco looked up at himself and for the first time wondered what really happened to his brother. All questions fled as he doubled over while the need clawed at him before easing again.

Home, he thought, his only real thought as he gasped for air, tears of pain standing in his eyes. Mom. Dad. I have to find help. And answers.

Decision made, it was still all Fresco could do to pull his eyes away from the hurt and lost expression on his own face.

Fresco staggered through the doorway and back outside, hunting for something he recognized in his surroundings. It was hard to tell in the dark where he was but, fortunately, he wasn't far from the street. He made it to a crosswalk and looked up at the sign, hoping to get his bearings. With a shock, he realized he knew exactly where he was, after all. He glanced back over his shoulder at the park where he and Daniel used to ride their bikes and play endless games of make believe as children. He was amazed he didn't know it, forgivable in his current state. Optimism lifting him at least a little, Fresco turned and headed down the street.

As luck would have it, he was three blocks from home.

Even though the distance was short, it took him several breaks along the way. The hunger chewed and tore at his insides while he begged it to stop, to just leave him be. And still it took its toll, over and over again.

What are you? Pinpoints of light from the pain of it bloomed in his vision. It was a living thing inside of him, he was certain of it, eating him up one bite at a time.

Fresco dove for the bushes as a cop car cruised by, instinctively knowing he needed to stay out of their way. By the time he reached his yard, he was panting and tired, but he had just enough momentum left to dig the spare key out of the plant holder by the back door and get inside.

Fresco held his breath as he leaned wearily against the door. He jumped a little when the refrigerator beside him hummed into life and stood there for a long moment, one hand pressed against the smooth side, letting the subtle heat from it warm his palm and fingers. He debated waking his parents, certain they would be worried about him. Wouldn't they? Why did part of him think the opposite? Fresco chose sleep instead. He dragged himself up the back stairs and to his room, easing the door open and closed with barely a whisper of sound as he did so many times before. Fresco didn't bother with the light, turning to crash on his bed.

Just for a few minutes, he promised himself. As he did, his pain-fogged brain finally registered something was wrong. In the dim light from the street outside, Fresco realized his bed wasn't where it was supposed to be. And more, the one replacing it on the other side of the room already had an occupant.

In the near dark, he made out the sleeping form of a little girl. As he stood there, staring, trying to understand what was going on, the girl stirred and opened her eyes, looking up at him.

Before he registered what happened, she started to scream.

Instantly the house came alive. Fresco, caught in terror, broke out of his shock and dove for the window. Fueled by adrenaline and little else, he knew the best way out was his old standby, onto the overhang and down the maple tree to the back deck. He wasn't sure why he didn't just wait and ask where his family was. As he did with the police, he understood getting caught was not an option, his gut somehow honed now to fear and flight instead of trust.

Fresco flung the window open when a man burst into the room, throwing the light switch. Fresco leaped out onto the overhang, risking a glance at the girl's father. The barrel of a gun shook between them, the man yelling as the girl continued to scream. Desperate and panting like a cornered animal, Fresco slid down the maple tree, skinning his hands and wrenching his left knee when he chose to jump the last five feet. He pulled himself up and staggered toward the neighbor's yard as the man with the gun emerged, still yelling, from the back door. Fresco ignored the flaring pain in his leg and his burning questions and ran.

Those familiar three blocks later, Fresco collapsed back in the park, desperately trying to figure out what to do. He felt overwhelmingly lost, with no idea how long he'd been gone or where his parents were. His fogged mind rolled over and over, the longing he felt not allowing him to think clearly. Fresco toyed with the idea of going to the police after all, but the events of the night would probably get him into worse trouble than he could handle. The hunger drove him now, making him hug himself and grunt as he rocked with the pain and tried to hold on until it passed.

Fresco slid his way further into the bushes as the same police car cruised past, this time shining a light into the park. He barely made it behind a tree to hide as the want within him made moving almost impossible. Somehow, though, he dragged himself through the dirt and grass, pushing to the limits of his strength to fall on his face just out of sight.

As he lay there with his cheek in the dirt, gasping and choking air into his fragile lungs, the car and its light reached his tree. Through the wide-open windows, he heard the voice of the dispatch.

"Be advised, suspect is a white male, late teens, wearing denims and a blue T-shirt. Blond hair. Possible drug addict. May have a weapon. Use extreme caution."

Fresco held his breath as the cops slowed, their search light punching through the dark, so close to him, so close. Finally, they moved on. The beaten and exhausted Fresco allowed himself a moment to give in to despair. He found the energy to flip over onto his side, curling into a fetal ball as he choked dry sobs into the dark.

It wasn't long before the burning want inside shook him loose of his grief. Fresco chewed his lower lip bloody through the attack, sprawled and panting in a dirty puddle under the tree. The reality of his situation hit him like a physical blow. His mind flinched away from the depth of the truth, shielding him and letting him think with some dispassion.

His parents were gone or moved. Fine. Maybe one of his friends knew where and could tell him what happened. A familiar face, one he knew all his life, popped into his head. Choosing to trust Justin, needing to act, Fresco dragged himself to his feet and moved on.

Part of his choice was proximity. Justin's house was two blocks away and in the opposite direction. Fresco hoped the police would be checking elsewhere by the time he got there.

Despite his twisted knee, he made way better time with fear as his fuel. He soon found himself paused under his friend's window, gripped by uncertainty.

What if Justin doesn't live here after all? Fresco shuddered. What if everything I remember is a lie? Maybe my memories from before are false and this is my reality. Is my whole life imaginary? He shied away from that line of thinking. Only one way to find out.

As he often did when they were kids, Fresco chose a small stone from one of Mrs. Collin's meticulous flowerbeds and tossed it at the second floor.

It took three attempts before the light in the bedroom switched on and a large, dark shape pushed up the sash.

Relief flooded Fresco as his friend looked down at him with shock on his face.

"Fresco?" Justin stared at him.

"Justin!" His whisper was just loud enough for the sound to carry. "Man, you have no idea how happy I am to see you." His throat was still sore, pushed to its limit.

His friend's face hardened. "What the hell do you want?"

Stung and with worry returning, Fresco answered. "I need to know what happened." His shaking was getting worse. He hugged himself to hide it. "I went home, Justin, my folks... where are my parents?"

His friend recoiled, glancing over his shoulder into his room and back to Fresco.

"WTF, Fres," he said. "You should know."

Fresco's heart squeezed as fear gripped him.

"They're dead, man," Justin said. "And everybody says you killed them."

***