Lady of Nothingness

Written by Sailor Dathomir

He was gentle, and that was always the first thing Woodrow remembered when he woke up. He had been gentle, and soft and had wiped away tears, whispering nonsense in a language Woodrow couldn't understand.

For his life, Woodrow had no idea who the man was, or even the event that was always the last thing he remembered before waking up to view the dingy walls and smoky ceilings.

Sometimes he didn't smell the smoke from whatever illicit drug the latest roommate inevitably smoked, but the soft, sweet-clean smell he associated with the babies. The babies that were only half remembered, a dim view of tiny bodies, some damaged by disease or spice, but all sweet smelling and kept clean.

They never worried about Woodrow, but kept the babies clean and he could never find it in himself to add that to their crimes. There were many crimes he could add to their lists, some only half-imagined, others still with him, but keeping the babies clean was not one of them.

Woodrow looked across the hazy room to the other wall, stained with years of smoke and other, possibly less savoury airborne materials. Assuring himself that the lump of rags and hair that usually resided within the recessed sleeping area was absent, he withdrew a slender, well-worn leather covered case from under the self sanitizing mattress and held it like it was a talisman against a child's boogeyman nightmares. In a way, it was. His long, cold fingers could barely feel the worn corners, the leather having torn off years ago (or was it months ago? Woodrow couldn't remember) from abuse and battering that doubtlessly would have destroyed a plasticine case.

Hands that were beginning to show signs of trembling and struggle slipped the tiny catch open and forced the small case open, the strong spring-loaded hinges creaking in protest. Inside, secured by a leather strap and worn metal ratchet was a medically elegant hypodermic syringe, beautiful in all its antiquity. In jarring contrast there was a plasticine cube containing a slightly cloudy liquid crammed in the space where a bottle-impression was formed.

A soft sigh escaped his body, tendons releasing the hold on his muscles as he slumped in relief. His fingers steadied as he methodically filled the syringe from the cube, removed the air and laid it neatly beside the case on the mattress. Attention turned to the formed bottom lining. With the last unbroken nail he had, Woodrow pried the lining up and removed a length of rubber tubing. With almost exaggerated care, he tied it with teeth and nervous fingers around his right bicep, right above the elbow.

Woodrow hadn't had to worry about finding veins in years. Not since he was twelve, anyway. He picked up the syringe with a careful left hand and with a sigh of pleasure, injected the contents into his veins. The pleasant rush was euphoric and wonderful. Sweetblossom was well worth killing beggers and homeless for. Even killing babies.

Babies? Had he killed babies? He couldn't remember, and truthfully, the sweetblossom rush wouldn't let him care. With the last of his conscious mind, he packed away his paraphanelia and lay back down to enjoy nothingness.