The sour smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, cheap perfume, and even cheaper alcohol permeates everything in the tiny motel room. The floor is littered with empty bottles of bargain-basement wine and other spirits. Everywhere you look there are crumpled cigarette packages and overflowing ash trays. The carpet is dotted with cigarette burns and it’s a wonder the place hasn’t caught fire. In the bathroom a lone figure sits on the toilet, fumbling with her rig. Her hands shake so badly she can barely work the zipper of her little leather pouch. Twice it spills from her hands onto the filthy tile floor. Each time she picks it back up her stomach rebels and dry heaves wrack her emaciated frame. Finally she gets the zipper open but the contents just spill back out onto the floor. Oblivious to the filth she picks up the syringe, spoon, and lighter. “What the fuck?” She looks around, but can’t seem to locate the cotton ball. “Luke, bring me some cotton!” She yells from the bathroom.
