People are passed out around the house, some are awake and riding this thing out till they're dead or everyone else is gone. Kash is somewhere, last they saw he gallivanted off with some woman. This meant two things for them. One, they were going to get the most vulgar description of the sex Kash had with that woman when they got off work for another call to partake in various body killing, mind numbing substances and, the less unfortunate two, their ride was gone. They're still high and drunk, stumbling over those who passed out on the floor to leave so they can walk home.
The night air is crisp and clean outside, a difference from the perpetual hotbox they had just stood in for at least a few hours. They cough when breathing it in, like it's foreign to them. Their hands shake as they pull out their phone to attempt to punch their address into the map before they give up and drunkenly shout the building name into the search bar. It buffers for a moment, then gives them a route. It'd take well over an hour to get there, probably longer with how unfamiliar with the area they really were.
The hill down was gravel that the driveway was spewing out into the road. It wasn't all that large but harsh to walk on given the loose nature, this spelling out to an obvious statement that Sprocket has tripped like a drunken stereotype. They groan and look at where they'd fallen. It'd been on their elbow, where they can't see but can feel a kind of slick stickiness. This did not bode well for things to come. They stand and continue with their shuffling walk into the night.
The air is nice, nicer than it was when they were going in. How long had it been since they had the pleasure of inhaling something unpolluted with drugs of some type or another? The feeling was sharp in their lungs, and kept them tripping over themselves across dark back country roads.
The fields are rolling, and they can see the Raptured over the way in the silhouette of the never sleeping city. They think to themself about what Kash could have possibly done to come into happenstance with such a place. No one buys anything out here anymore, most others who aren't scared off by the nightly migrations would be by having to deal with the dying crop fields. Sinking all that money into an unfixable shithole did sound an awful lot like him though, his folks didn't much care for him to get better. He simply said he needed money for things, and they delivered.
The music from the house is still clear in the distance, the light however is gone and Sprocket's footing isn't the best on account of the dirt roads. The moon casts a kind of ominous glow about everything but it's not enough to stop them from tripping over a sizable rock and getting a scrape on the left side of their forehead. They can't feel the pain but the warmth of blood begins to drip down. They reach up, feeling around for the cut to follow however far the gash went. It wasn't very long but it was decently deep and more than likely to scar.
They get up and dust themselves off with a groan. It takes a minute for them to steady themselves so they can keep walking, carefully this time to avoid any other complications. They keep their hand on their newly gained wound to prevent further bleeding, mostly to stop it from going in their eyes to be honest. The road has flattened out now, so it's easier to stay up right. Not to say the task is easy at all however, the world around them is spinning and fuzzy at the edges.
It's when their navigation app informs them that they need to turn left that headlights appear behind them, they turn and see a beat up pick up truck pulling over behind them. They're worried for a moment it may be an officer, however an older grizzled looking man steps out lacking a uniform. Sprocket stands dumbfounded as he approaches.
"Hey, kid! You comin' from that shindig up the way?" He asks. His southern accent is so stereotypical they can't help but burst out into laughter, mortified but unable to stop. The man simply sighs and shakes his head. "That answers that I guess. How much've you had to drink?"
"I...hoo...I'm so sorry. I'm just-" They cut themselves off with a snort before taking a deep breath to steady themselves. "A lot."
"Mhmm. And where are you headed?" He asks. They show him their phone screen with the navigator. He studies it for a moment. "Damn, that's a ways away. How'd you get out here?"
"Friend drove me. He was too busy to drive me back so I started walking, I gotta go to work tomorrow." They say, with hot shame dripping down their spine. It's similar to when they were a teenager, caught sneaking out and now had to face the music. They're not a teenager anymore, far from it actually, but they still do the same shit they did back then.
"Doubt you'll get outta bed for it. Get in the truck, I'll take you back kid." The man turns and waves them into step with him back to the vehicle, where they drunkenly throw themself into the passenger seat. They don't put their seatbelt on yet, however, familiar with this transaction. They'd had to do it a few times when Kash left them, or got both of them stranded.
"Probably gonna need some help with your belt, sorry." They slur out, reaching for the waistband of the man's dirty jeans. He's quick to grab their wrist.
"What the hell are ya doin?!" He yells. The sudden loud noise makes them hiss.
"Shit! I'm so sorry, every time I've done this usually they want a favor."
"Christ almighty kid, NO. I'm married. Put your seatbelt on." The man sighs, releasing their wrist. They quickly buckle up to get this over with faster so the current bonfire of embarrassment in their stomach can be quelled with a shower or something. He's thankfully quick to start driving again. It's quiet for a moment before he speaks again. "So you have to do this often?"
"Yeah, no car. Too expensive." They reply. The man looks concerned at them out of the corner of his eye.
"And everytime the person wants a...'favor'?
"Duh, nothing comes for free in this world."
"Jesus Mary and Joseph." He mumbles. "Well for one, this does. Second, why doesn't your friend who picked you up just take you home?"
"He's...flaky. It's fun though, he's a good guy." They smile. It's weak and tired. He furrows his thick graying brows at them in the rear view, and they know that look.
"Shoot, if that's what you consider a friend I'd hate to meet one of your enemies." They've made it back into the city, far faster than the hour it would've taken them to stumble all the way there. Even with the rocky start, they're glad he gave them a lift. "Makin' you walk back here from buttfuck nowhere, drunk as a skunk trippin' all over yourself, doing who knows what to who knows who to get back safe."
"It's not like that." They say. Both people in this car know they're lying but neither push it. The old man simply sighs. It's silent the rest of the ride, until they pull up in front of Sprocket's apartment building. They unbuckle and crawl out, nearly busting their ass on the pavement.
"There you are. Safe n' sound. Make sure you tend to those scrapes, they look nasty." He says. Sprocket makes a noise of acknowledgement as they reach to grab the edge of the door. They think the interaction over once it's shut and they turn to walk towards their building, but the old man rolls down the window to shout one last thing before driving off. "Take care of yourself!"
They're taken aback for a moment, standing in front of the door to the apartment complex to process. Why would he care what they did, or how their friends treated them? Why even pick them up at all if he didn't want anything in return? It's not like he needed anything else in the city, or at least he hadn’t said so. Why'd some old man they'd never met before help them like that?
The answer is on their tongue and tastes bitter as they enter, hitting the elevator buttons extra hard. It festers as they ride it up to their floor and they move through the hallway with their drunken walk. It eats away at them as they stumble into the bathroom to grab a shower where they simply sit on the floor to allow the water to hit their flushed skin and rinse away the dirt in their cuts. They move to leave the train of thought entirely, shelving it for the night because there was something of more importance.