Grit: Fix 1

He looked into his son’s hollow eyes; saw the pooling fetid blackness of a decayed dream there and knew that without doubt it was his fault that the kid was so irredeemably fucked up. He was not a good father and he never had been – he hadn’t been interested; hadn’t wanted him in the first place; and now looking at the sorry sack of shit he was faced with he wished he could be rid of him and didn’t feel a nagging sense of duty.
A fucking junky – well, he supposed in some sick and twisted way it was what he deserved. Sure, he knew some people would say that he was being an egocentric prick to think that this was all happening to him, and for him not to be concerned with what was going on with his son at the moment, but they could go fuck themselves, what did they know?
When he’d seen the number flash on his mobile he had briefly considered not bothering to answer it – his son was never good news. He let it ring for a while but it became obvious that he was just going to get pestered by the little bastard. His son didn’t have anyone else, so what was he going to do? Grit had obviously given him the number for some reason, though on days like this he couldn’t for the life of him think why.
In his time Grit had seen drugs do a lot of damage and they were never something that he was interested in – drugs made you sloppy and in his line of work that was something that you couldn’t afford. His tea-total attitude had given him the edge on more than one occassion.
He grabbed Faron’s arm and pulled him up – he moaned as if it caused him some pain, and Grit wouldn’t have been too surprised if that were true; there was no meat on the boy’s bones. He was like a skeleton.
He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do with the kid but he knew that whatever it was it was not going to be easy on either of them. He’d seen people go cold turkey on the inside and it wasn’t something he would wish on anyone, and some of those guys were real hard cases – Faron wasn’t. To see someone who knew had shot the knee-caps off people crying and screaming for their mothers was distinctly disturbing. People would shout at them when they made so much noise but half of the inmates had some kind of intimate understanding of the workings of an addiction, so they didn’t put much heart into it.
So, he had some idea what he was signing on for. He had a couple of ideas of where he might stash Faron while he was coming off. He had a few ideas of the people he might be talking to in order to scare them off of his son.

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