Needles
1634 Words
Fabrizio promised himself he would never use needles.
That line mattered to him.
Even after pills.
Even after powders.
Even after nights so blurred he barely remembered where he slept.
Needles still represented something different in his mind.
A final boundary.
The point where addiction stopped looking temporary and became impossible to deny.
He judged people who used needles once.
Quietly.
Cruelly sometimes.
Back when he still lived on the farm and believed self-destruction only happened to other people.
Now he understood how easily suffering changes morality.
Pain rearranges boundaries.
Loneliness lowers standards.
And eventually survival becomes more important than pride.
The days following his reunion with Arka inside the warehouse destroyed whatever fragile emotional stability he still had left.
Seeing him again reopened everything.
Not just love.
Hope.
And hope became dangerous immediately.
For nearly a year Fabrizio survived by convincing himself Arka was gone forever emotionally. Untouchable. Lost somewhere beyond reach.
But now he knew that wasn’t true.
Arka still cared.
Still looked at him like heartbreak lived inside his chest too.
And somehow that hurt worse than abandonment ever did.
Because if love still existed between them, then what exactly had all this suffering been for?
Fabrizio couldn’t stop replaying the reunion afterward.
Arka grabbing his wrist.
The horror in his eyes seeing Fabrizio high.
“I tried to save you by leaving.”
That sentence looped endlessly inside his skull until sleep became impossible again.
So naturally—
he used more.
Not for fun.
Never for fun anymore.
Only to silence thought.
But the drugs stopped working the way they used to.
Tolerance had grown too high now. Pills barely touched him anymore unless mixed with alcohol or stronger substances. The comedowns became brutal too — sweating, shaking, nausea, panic crawling beneath his skin for hours.
His body had become dependent.
There was no pretending otherwise anymore.
One night Fabrizio woke violently inside a stranger’s apartment drenched in sweat and unable to breathe properly.
The room spun around him while his heart hammered uncontrollably.
Withdrawal.
Even the word terrified him.
He stumbled into the bathroom shaking so badly he nearly collapsed trying to splash water on his face.
The mirror looked unfamiliar now.
Sunken cheeks.
Bloodshot eyes.
A body slowly eating itself alive.
Fabrizio stared at his reflection for a long time.
Then quietly whispered:
“What happened to you?”
No answer came.
Only silence.
And somewhere deep inside himself, Fabrizio realized he no longer recognized the person staring back.
Later that afternoon he found himself wandering through a narrow alley behind one of the clubs he frequented often now.
Rainwater dripped from tangled electrical wires overhead while cigarette smoke drifted through humid air. Dealers lingered casually against stained walls watching people come and go like predators disguised as ordinary men.
Fabrizio spotted Rio immediately.
Rio was older than him by maybe ten years. Thin. Hollow-faced. Covered in tattoos faded from years beneath Indonesian heat and hard living. He dealt drugs occasionally but mostly survived however he could.
For some reason, Rio liked Fabrizio.
Maybe because he recognized the sadness in him.
“You look dead,” Rio muttered while lighting a cigarette.
“Feel dead too.”
Rio laughed softly.
“That means you’re fitting in.”
Fabrizio leaned exhausted against the alley wall beside him.
Everything hurt lately.
His bones.
His stomach.
His mind.
Even breathing felt exhausting now.
Rio studied him for a moment carefully.
“You’re withdrawing.”
Fabrizio didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The shaking hands said enough.
Rio exhaled smoke slowly.
“You need stronger shit.”
The sentence immediately tightened something cold inside Fabrizio’s chest.
“No.”
Rio shrugged.
“Suit yourself.”
Then casually he rolled up his sleeve.
Fabrizio immediately looked away.
Track marks.
Bruises.
Tiny scars running along damaged veins.
The sight made his stomach twist violently.
“No chance,” he muttered.
Rio laughed.
“Everybody says that.”
That sentence again.
Everybody says that.
The same thing the first dealer told him about pills.
Fabrizio suddenly hated how familiar those words sounded now.
Rio watched him carefully.
“You know why people end up doing it?”
“I don’t care.”
“Because eventually getting high stops being the goal.”
Fabrizio looked at him despite himself.
Rio flicked ash into rainwater beside his boots.
“Eventually you just want the sickness to stop.”
That terrified him.
Because deep down, Fabrizio already understood exactly what he meant.
The next several days became hell.
Fabrizio ran out of drugs completely after spending nearly all his remaining money. He tried going without them.
Tried convincing himself he could stop.
But withdrawal hit brutally.
Sweating.
Vomiting.
Shaking so violently he couldn’t hold cigarettes properly.
His muscles cramped constantly while anxiety clawed beneath his skin like insects trapped inside his veins.
Worst of all, memory returned full force without drugs muting it.
Arka flooded back into every second of consciousness.
Fabrizio curled up alone inside a motel room one night clutching his stomach while rain hammered outside.
He genuinely thought he might die.
And somewhere between nausea and panic, something inside him broke.
Not emotionally.
Practically.
Survival over pride.
Relief over dignity.
The next morning he found Rio again.
The older man took one look at him and sighed quietly.
“Told you.”
Fabrizio hated himself standing there.
Hated the shaking in his hands.
Hated needing help from someone equally destroyed.
“I just need something stronger temporarily.”
Rio nodded slowly.
“Sure.”
Temporary.
That word meant nothing in addiction.
But Fabrizio still needed to believe it.
Rio led him through narrow back streets into an apartment complex so damaged it barely looked inhabitable. Mold climbed the walls. Music thumped faintly through thin ceilings. People drifted through hallways with empty eyes and restless movements.
The apartment itself smelled like sweat, smoke, and chemical rot.
Fabrizio immediately wanted to leave.
Every instinct inside him screamed this place was dangerous.
But withdrawal screamed louder.
Several people sat scattered around the room in various states of intoxication. Nobody looked surprised seeing another broken person walk in.
Rio disappeared briefly into another room.
When he returned, he carried a small syringe.
Fabrizio’s entire body went cold.
“No.”
Rio sat calmly across from him.
“You want relief or not?”
Fabrizio stared at the needle like it belonged in a nightmare.
Everything inside him recoiled violently.
His father’s face flashed through memory.
The farm.
The horses.
Arka.
The boy he used to be.
“This isn’t me,” Fabrizio whispered.
Rio looked strangely sad hearing that.
“It becomes you faster than you think.”
The room suddenly felt impossible to breathe inside.
Fabrizio stood abruptly.
“I can’t.”
Then withdrawal hit again violently enough to nearly buckle his knees.
Sweat poured down his neck while panic surged through his body.
Rio watched silently.
Not pressuring.
Not convincing.
Just waiting.
Because addicts recognize the moment survival finally overpowers fear.
Fabrizio sat back down slowly.
His hands shook uncontrollably now.
Tears burned behind his eyes immediately.
Not because of the needle.
Because deep down he understood exactly what this moment meant.
Crossing this line changed things permanently.
There would be no pretending afterward.
No fantasy of “casual” addiction anymore.
Only reality.
Rio tied fabric around Fabrizio’s arm carefully.
“Relax.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
Fabrizio laughed weakly at that.
Thinking too much had destroyed his entire life.
He turned his head away unable to watch.
The needle entered his arm.
A sharp sting.
Then warmth.
Immediate.
Violent.
The sickness vanished almost instantly.
His body stopped screaming.
The shaking slowed.
Relief flooded through him so powerfully it nearly felt religious.
And that terrified him more than the needle itself.
Because for one horrifying moment, Fabrizio understood completely why people ruined their lives chasing this feeling.
The peace felt unnatural.
Artificial.
Perfect.
He leaned back against the stained apartment wall breathing unevenly while the room softened around the edges.
Rio watched him carefully.
“You okay?”
Fabrizio closed his eyes.
“No.”
The honesty surprised even him.
Because physically he felt better than he had in weeks.
But spiritually?
Emotionally?
Something enormous had just collapsed inside him.
A boundary.
A piece of identity.
The last fragile thread connecting him to the boy from the fields.
That night he wandered through Surabaya alone afterward while rain fell softly across neon streets.
Everything looked strangely beautiful now.
Too beautiful.
Like the city itself was seducing him deeper into destruction.
Motorbike lights blurred across wet roads while music drifted through open club doors.
Fabrizio shoved both hands into his pockets and kept walking.
Then suddenly he imagined Arka seeing him now.
Needles in his arm.
Track marks eventually coming.
Another addict drifting through city streets at 3am.
The thought physically hurt.
Because Fabrizio remembered exactly how Arka looked inside the warehouse.
Horrified.
Heartbroken.
Like he was watching someone drown right in front of him.
And now Fabrizio understood why.
The drugs no longer felt temporary anymore.
They felt inevitable.
That realization settled heavily into his chest while rain soaked through his clothes.
One hit.
That’s all it took.
One line crossed.
One desperate moment choosing relief over fear.
And now the city had him completely.
By the time dawn finally rose above Surabaya, Fabrizio sat alone beneath an overpass staring blankly at traffic while exhaustion settled deep into his bones.
He touched the inside of his arm carefully.
Still sore.
Still real.
Then quietly, almost too softly to hear himself, he whispered:
“Arka would hate this.”
But even while saying it, Fabrizio already knew something worse than hatred had happened.
He was becoming somebody Arka wouldn’t even recognize anymore.
- Writer
