Crimson Rain by Tex Leiko Page A

counting his age in his head right before he slipped the needle into his arm.
    It was glorious; it was everything he had imagined. He had been standing in his room right near his bed, pacing back and forth. Another sleepless night, he imagined. He couldn ’ t take it. If it continued, he would jump off a roof. So he did it, a tenth of a cc of serenity straight to his arm. It was the lowest dose available; there was such a small amount of fluid in his syringe he doubted it would be enough.
    He was already in medical school and he thought that the drug would only be absorbed by capillaries in the muscles and dermis and not even be able to circulate in his system. He didn ’ t think it was possible that five seconds later, his legs would drop him to the floor. He hadn ’ t studied pharmacokinetics or pharmacodynamics yet. He ignored the warnings that boosts were highly addictive even on the first use; he was ignorant. That had been fifteen years ago now, roughly. He was much more informed; he should know better.
    “ God damned addicts, ” he muttered aloud, confirming what he was to himself.
    Max stood . H is shirt was covered in sweat. His body ached. It hadn ’ t felt a boost for years and now all the cravings he had subdued came crawling back under his skin. He tossed his used syringe into a garbage can and shook his head violently; it throbbed.
    He pushed back in the drawers of his desk that he had left open before he had abandoned himself to the effects of the serenity boost. His legs were still shaky; his body wasn ’ t as good at processing the drug as it had once been. He looked at the clock on his desk and saw that it was ten at night . He needed to be to his house—which was miles away— in an hour to meet with Crimson.
    He stumbled over to a mirror to check his appearance. He scanned his figure up and down. He was short, about five-foot-five. His hair was short and blonde, looking quite disheveled. His forehead was decorated with thick beads of sweat and his face was flushed from his cells rebelling against his will, craving more of the drug. He remembered this feeling, the slavery, the lust, almost always ending in him abandoning himself to the boosts once more.
    He looked down to his hands; they were veined and masculine. He had a working man ’ s grip and musculature to go along with it. This, he had worked for, not cheated to get with stimulants or boosts. He couldn ’ t stop his hands from having violent tremors, another effect of addiction.
    “ I hate you! ” he screamed at himself in the mirror.
    His voice mixed with the sound of glass shattering as his scream echoed throughout the small office. Before he had even realized he had done it, he had struck the mirror with a closed fist in a tantrum of self-loathing . The glass had shattered at the force of his blow with his right hand and lacerated his knuckles. He was fortunate to not sever any digits.
    Blood flowed from his hand profusely; he should have stopped to treat it, but the adrenaline now was taking over and overriding the after effects of his bad decision to use a boost. He didn ’ t bother to wrap his hand in a bandage. He just looked at it and thought, And then this happened.
    His mind was raging. He had already made a fool of himself in front of Crimson. He already looked like an idiot. What more harm could him arriving late and bleeding do? None. She ’ ll understand, maybe.
    He grabbed his keys and his credit chip and stuffed them in his pocket with his left hand. He was bleeding all over his office floor, but his obsessive nature couldn ’ t handle the thought of any of his blood staining his clothing. He opened the large black security door that led out to the slums. They were always dangerous , but even more so this time of night.
    He slammed the door behind himself and locked it. He looked into the direction of his home. About three miles to the west of his office . He could make it well within time if he ran. He crouched low