Page 95 of Dark Room Junkie

“He just needs a bed to crash.”

Romero narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “No.”

“What?” Juri turned around.

“I know how this works, kid! Guapo moves in and won’t leave anytime soon. But this isn’t a shelter. A bed in this house costs money.”

“You’re impossible, Romero!” Juri exclaimed. “Just look at him! Does he look like he can pay rent? If anything, you owe him! You were the one supplying Dana with the stuff.”

“Are you serious?” Romero snapped back. “I only gave her the good stuff! You know that better than anyone!”

I barely registered what was happening, but when my knees gave out, it was Romero who caught me in time and prevented me from tumbling down the stairs. I clung to him and grimaced in pain; I had completely forgotten about my injured hand.

“Sorry, Guapo,” Romero said, his voice suddenly dripping with compassion. “But I can’t let you stay here for free. That kind of thing spreads, and it’s not good.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“He’ll pay eventually,” Juri interjected.

“If you don’t have money, you can pay me another way,” Romero said with a suggestive smile, then even wiggled his eyebrows.

“No, I’m not gonna screw you, and I’m not gonna let you screw me. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Oh, Guapo, we both know you’re not a saint. And we both know what you do.”

“But I don’t do it for money.”

“No, you do it for a warm bed. Isn’t that right? Your false pride is out of place here.”

Juri groaned and pulled out his wallet. “How much do you want? Here! A hundred should be enough for now. And now leave us alone, Romero.”

The Venezuelan raised an eyebrow and pocketed the money. “Rest well, Guapo,” he said in a sing-song voice and disappeared into his apartment.

“Come on.”

Juri opened the door and brought me inside.

28

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Noé

I let myself be dragged down by the black whirlpool and spent Wednesday in bed with pain; or rather, on the mattress on the floor. I used my backpack as a pillow and covered myself with the parka. Juri kept me company, and in a half-asleep state, I heard him promise to get me a blanket.

In the evening, I mustered the strength to get up and hit the streets, sold a few benzos, and with the money, got myself something to eat and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. With that, I returned to the dark room, illuminated only by the streetlamp, and turned up the music in my headphones to drown out the moans from the apartment below. Later that night, Juri returned and sat with me. Together, we emptied the bottle, and I was just grateful that he was there.

On Thursday, I received a message from Chris. I knew they wanted a dress rehearsal since the concert at the Exil was on Saturday, but I couldn’t do it. I was so deep in the swamp that I just couldn’t get out anymore. I knew they definitely deserved better than me. Turning off my phone, I curled up under my jacket.

On Friday evening, as I packed a few benzos and headed to the alley, I ran into Romero in the stairwell.

“You look like shit, Guapo,” he said mockingly, blocking my way downstairs.

“Oh, really?” I replied, scowling. I knew that the bruises around my eye and jaw had turned the color of an eggplant.

“Don’t forget, payday is coming soon.”

“Leave me alone, Romero,” I said, squeezing past him.

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