justin

justin

He traces his finger from one landmark to another:

a litter of bruises from shots, a lightning bolt strike of scar tissue down his center, a bulge of a pacemaker slipped into some interior pocket. “After I get a new heart I’m going to get a zipper tattooed down the middle of my chest that says, “Go ahead open me up,” smirks Justin. He settles on a spot just below his plaid boxers, on his left thigh. Pinching an inch of skin,he takes an I-know-I-gotta-do-this breath and plunges the syringe in. Then taking aim at his mom, he pulls back the dispenser like a sling shot, and shoots.