Frankie lurched into the decrepit disabled latrine and bashed his arms on the cracked tiles. He belched an awful lager burp and vomited, unconcerned about the sick that splattered his battered shoes.
How had it come to this? he thought.
Three years on the streets.
A life wasted.
He breathed heavily and wiped his mouth. Investigating the stained sink, he saw something out the corner of his eye that pricked his intoxicated senses.
He practically leapt at the bar of filthy-looking soap. Knocking it out the way, he scrabbled around on the floor for the discarded syringe, smiling broadly.
Brenda Evans over 7 years ago
I liked how you use the "pricked his ... senses" to foreshadow the ending.