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Real Wild Child	By : mao Category: S through Z > Velvet Goldmine Views: 1412 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Velvet Goldmine, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Real Wild Child
- 1
Title: Rael Wild Child
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes,
and a lot of other people, most namely not me. The title for this
comes from Iggy Pop and the Stooges' song of the same name, as is the
clip at the beginning. I'm just a poor college student not trying to
make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some
soda bottles.
Author's Notes: Set in 1969, shortly before Brian sees Curt
onstage for the first time.
Warnings: Graphic drug use, sexual content.
***
"gonna meet all my friends
gonna have myself a ball
in a world gone crazy
everything seems hazy
I'm a real wild one"

He sits at the table, takes a drag off the end of his cigarette.
He stamps it out, crushing the burning embers into nonexistence in
the ashtray. With a practiced movement, he tlifts a syringe from
among the beer bottles that litter the table, pushes the plunger into
place, against the end of the syringe.
He lifts a beer to his lips, swigs, then sets the empty bottle
down. Lights a small candle that sits on the table with a flick of
his thumb. Around him, the din of the room is heightened by the
arrival of a blonde stripper in a cowboy outfit. He watches her
dimly, through the smoke of twenty-some lit cigarettes and more than
a few joints. The coke from earlier is wearing off, and it's time for
a fix in the other direction.
He turns away from the stripper, from the roomful of bandmates and
adoring fans who have ceased to realize that he exists. The girl from
last night - small, British with mousy-colored hair and a delicate
accent - is cheering the stripper on with all the others there.
He takes the spoon and the powder and, upon a whim, pulls out a
dollar bill. Scrapes the powder into a neat line with the edge of the
spoon, then rolls the dollar bill into a small tube. Lowering his
head, he inserts the tube in his right nostril, the snorts up the
white line of heroin, sending the tiny crystals straight to his
brain. In a moment, he'll be feeling better, and that should tide him
over while he heats the rest of it to injection liquidity.
He swipes the back of his hand roughly b his his nose, snorting at
the sudden, slight pain of the powder going where it really
shouldn't. His eyes water for a moment, and the inside of his nose is
painful, then suddenly begins to compensate the dryness with
dampness.
He drops the dollar bill to the dirty table-top as smack reaches
his brain. For a moment, there's brief flicker of ecstasy, of
otherworldly contentment and relaxation. He tilts his head back
against his shoulders, feeling for a moment that hole in his chest
filled by the heat, the incredible warmth of the drug.
And then it's relaxed, like the tide going back out to sea.
Leaving him alone on the beach.
And he wants more.
He wants it so baldy he is quivering as he contintinues, and must
press his palms into the table to steady his hands. He pauses, eyes
closed, hands outstretched and fingers spread, pressing his hands
into the table. Then it's passed, and he has recovered from the
wanting - the beast that pushes him onward has recessed back into its
cave.
He takes the bent spoon and drops powder into it, licking what's
left on his fingers off quickly, in a desperate movement. He can do
this quickly, he knows that. He just can't do it fast enough to
satisfy himself. He has to go faster, hurry hurry get the smack and
fill the plunger do it do it, please hurry, please rush-
He forces his hands to slow down. He has no water, so he drips
some beer into the spoon, mixes the concoction with the tip of the
syringe. He holds the bowl of the spoon over the candle, slowly
simmering out the solidity of the powder, slowly dissolving it into a
clear orange liquid that he can send straight to his brain.
When it's completely liquid, he lowers the spoon to the table as
slowly as he can force himself to. He doesn't want to spill a drop -
last time he did that, he found himself licking the table in
desparation, trying to get it out of the cracks, praying he could
have it back. But he's more careful this time, and the mission to set
the spoon down is successful.
He forces his hands to slow down even more. He tells himself that
this is the price he has to pay for the next six hours of divine
ecstasy, a punishment for his habit. He lifts the syringe and gazes
at it for a single, slow minute. The needle is his favorite part. The
silver of it, the way it glitters in the dim light of the party. He
lowers it to the spoon, dips the point into the bowl, and slowly -
achingly slowly, so slowly it makes his teeth chatter and his gums
hurt and his brain to scream at him to hurry up again - pulls back
the plunger, filling the syringe cavity with the nectar.
When's completed that, he pauses, glances over across the room. He
feels a moment of surprise as he sees the crowd, then remembers that
they had been there earlier. The stripper is nude now, giving his
guitarist a lap dance. He knows the heroin is hitting him because he
remembers now seeing her come in, seeing the party move across the
room, good-natured on beer and gin and pot and coke. He knows that
when he looks away, he'll forget them again, will no longer hear the
thumping beat of the music or the cheers of the crowd, so he focuses
on this moment, as if it will remind him later of what was happening.
As if none of this will be blacked out later.
Then he turns back to the task at hand, the remembered plot to
have his own private party. He grins slowly, a feral expression,
unaware of his face changing on its own. He wishes there was someone
there he felt as though he could like - someone he would enjoy
shooting up with, someone who could push the plunger down for him.
Better than sex, really. More intimate, too.
But for now, he knows he'll have to do it himself.
He takes the rubber strip, wraps it around his left bicep.He pulls
it tight, wedging the loose end between his arm and his chest. He
picks up the needle, picks up his world.
He gazes one more time at the perfect end of the needle, at the
pricking end, where his universe begins. He lowers it slowly to his
arm, clenches a fist with his left arm, and picks a vein he hasn't
used too many times yet.
He breaks the skin quickly, waits a moment. He loves this moment
of torture. He loves making it take as long as possible, loves
holding it, se, seeing how long he can last - one minute, two? -
before punching down the plunger and drowning in the sweet seas of
junk. How many terrible things he can think of that will vanish the
moment the plunger descends and the needle pushes the heroin into his
vein. How many thoughts can he have before he's too smacked out to
think?
And then he pushes it down.
- 1
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Real Wild Child