Junkie Heaven

Doyle Burkett woke face-down in a motel bed that smelled like mildew and old sins. His arm throbbed. A needle stuck out like a cruel joke. He pulled it free, watched the blood bead, and stumbled to the bathroom.

The mirror didn’t lie. Punctures lined both arms. His skin was pale, his eyes hollow. He checked his teeth. Heroin users lose teeth due to dehydration. He liked his teeth. Or used to. One molar came loose in his hand. He stared at it, then dropped it in the sink.

“I like drugs more,” he muttered.

In the shower, strands of hair came off in clumps. A near-empty vial of cocaine sat where soap should be. He licked it clean, added water, shook it, drank. The bitterness hit his throat like a dare.

Forget rehab. All he wanted was to score. That was the rhythm of his life—stealing, scoring, surviving. It was an addiction. But it was his.

He dried off, opened the bathroom door—and froze.

A body lay face-down on the bed. His body.

“What the hell…”

A man stood in the room. Jeans, long sleeves, calm eyes. Not the Reaper. Not exactly.

“You’re dead,” the man said.

Doyle backed up. “Who the are you?”

“Alexander,” the man replied. “You had a bad batch. Might’ve been fentanyl. You’re in between now.”

Doyle laughed. “This a joke? Faz put you up to this?”

Alexander didn’t blink. “Take a closer look.”

Doyle did. His own face stared back at him, slack and lifeless.

“I’m here to make a deal,” Alexander said.

“I’m not selling my soul.”

“I’m not buying it. I need help. You’ve got the skills.”

“I’m a junkie.”

“You were a soldier. Iraq. You know guns.”

Doyle flinched. “PTSD. Haven’t touched one since.”

Alexander stepped closer. “Help me, and you’ll find peace. Refuse, and… well, the afterlife isn’t kind to wanderers.”

“What’s the job?”

“There’s a knife. In Tommy Combs’ back room at the Hollywell. Bring it to me.”

“That place is locked down.”

“Then take your chances in the void.”

Doyle looked at his body. “Fine. We got a deal.”

He woke again—alive, maybe. The needle still in his arm. A knock rattled the door.

“Open the door!” Faz’s voice. She stumbled in, jittery, clutching a bag.

“Marty gave us a bad batch,” she said. “Kristin’s dead. Marty OD’d too. I got new stuff.”

She dumped heroin packs and a bloodstained gun onto the bed.

“You killed someone?” Doyle asked.

“Tommy’s guy. Don’t worry.”

“Faz, this is bad.”

She fixed him a shot. He hesitated.

“I’m tired, Faz. Maybe I need to kick.”

“You can’t quit me,” she whispered. “We’re a team.”

“Fine.”

They shot up. Faz melted into bliss. Doyle felt nothing.

Then came the voice.

Your heart has stopped, Doyle. Your soul is trapped until the job’s done.

“Get out of my head!”

Look in the mirror.

He did. His reflection was rotting.

Get me the knife. Tommy’s at the Hollywell. Faz was passed out. Doyle grabbed the gun and left.

The Hollywell crack house was a tomb with music. Junkies slumped in corners. Teddy guarded the door.

“Last time you were here went bad,” Teddy said.

“I’m not that guy anymore.”

Inside, Tommy and his crew played poker. On the wall hung an antique gun with a blade fused inside.

Doyle burst in.

“Where’s the knife?”

Tommy looked up. “Doyle?”

“Give me the knife.”

Frank reached for his gun. Doyle fired. Chaos. Blood. Screams. Bodies fell. Tommy lay still—then rose.

“You must be dead,” he said. “Alex send you?”

Doyle backed up. “What are you?”

“An angel.”

Doyle lunged for the knife. Tommy grabbed him, slammed him into the wall.

“Addiction’s mercy,” Tommy whispered. “You of all people should understand.”

Doyle stabbed him. Light exploded and Tommy dissapeared. Doyle ran back to the motel.

Faz sat in the chair, still as stone. But then she was standing.

“You took long enough,” she said.

“Faz, I think you’re dead.”

She kissed his cheek. “We’re a team.”

She walked out. Alexander appeared.

“She’s going to heaven,” he said.

“What about me?”

“No, Doyle.”

“You promised redemption.”

“I promised guidance. Hand me the knife.”

“You poisoned the heroin.”

“I needed someone newly dead. You were perfect.”

“This didn’t have to happen,” Doyle said. “She didn’t deserve this.”

“You made your choice.”

Doyle raised the knife. “Then I’m changing it.”

Alexander lunged. They struggled. Doyle twisted the knife inward—into his own chest.

A scream tore through the room.

Doyle lay on a gurney, pale and still. A nurse slammed the defibrillator paddles onto his chest. Nothing. The monitor flatlined.

Faz was on another gurney nearby, her body just as lifeless.

The doctor pulled off his mask. “Time of death…”

Then Doyle’s eyes popped open, staring into nothing.