There was an inescapable stench roaming in the air.  Insects inhabited every green area on the endless grassy meadow. And the sound of wind passing through the autumn leaves left behind an uneasy sensation.  The native tourist’s pale skin cooked under the heat of the blinding pale blue sky.  The intensity of the greens, indigoes, and purples of her swelling veins exposed her cry for help.  But there she was alone and staring at what was in front of her, beside her, above and below her, genuinely reacting to the breathtaking surrounding.  And then she collapsed—sobbing into her palms.  She finally came back.
The sparkle of her freshly waxed floor dulled as the crowd clustered in the grand foyer.  The room filled with quieter murmur when a spotlight shining on the striking women commanded silence. Like a proper princess, she placed a hand on the railing letting it run down along with her as she walked closer to the ground. 
“With the continuous success stories and one-hundred percent positive feedback coming from Epiphania users, soon enough our world will come to a realization of its significant benefits towards human development.”  She had previously taken a dosage of speech skills and a shot to ease her nerves.  “So let us toast to this victory and the future achievements of Epiphania. Bless you all for coming tonight—where else would you have gone anyhow?  Ha-ha.  Cheers!”  She was on a drug, but one in which side-effects did not exist—except for the possibility of becoming an addict.
Confidence and power were so pronounced in her presence that those who crossed her path would experience an intensification of introversion.  Every guest had the opportunity to greet her.  In these moments she flourished, having her perfect world being fulfilled over time thanks to the success of the drug.  Confined in her personally designed space, the thought of abandoning it was unreasonable.  With all the guests she was greeting, she drained energy.  By passing a few of them, she reached the dark hallway.
She nods at a man in a black suit standing near her room and enters without hesitation locking the door behind her.  Walking past the bed and into the open doorway, a simplistic bathroom with white walls and pastel granite floors led you to an oversized mahogany box at the end of the room.  The tips of her four fingers ran along the smooth edges of the box, then to the corners and back again.  With her thumbs, she lifted the heavy lid.  And there they were—rows and rows of thin, polished syringes specifically labelled and laid upon a layer of ruby red velvet.  Her hand hovered the needles until she found the one labelled “Interest”. She settles it down on the counter to grab the rubber hose in the compartment below.  She takes it and puts one end in her mouth while wrapping the other above her elbow—tying it into a tight knot.  Without hesitation, she stabs her forearm in an instant.  The sensation was like a finger running up her arm all the way to the temples of her forehead.  A sense of relief came over her face when she untied the rubber band.  The dose would last her for the rest of the evening.  But her vision unexpectedly transformed to that of a nineteenth century film where a flower was growing out of her bathroom’s tiled floor. It was one of the many hallucinations she’s had after using it for one year.  She let it slide with it being the only incident after her last vision.  If only a needle containing awareness existed.
It was as if she hadn’t slept for days.  The boosters had always upheld her ideal world.  But now every injection had the addition of withdrawal.  And tonight was her annual gala.  But even in these unfortunate events, her stubbornness and self-image outweighed her health. 
She covered her eyes from the blinding spotlight.  The room was quiet.  Everyone stared at her confused and with slight disgust by what was standing in front of them.  A woman with distorted posture and a frighteningly unnatural complexion placed a hand on the railing letting it run down along with her as she fell closer to the ground.  Oh she fell, missing her chance of grabbing on to the microphone stand to catch her fall.  But she rose again and began to speak.  The combination of her weary voice and awkward speech left those who were still there cringing.  The quiet applaud from the back of the empty audience echoed after she finished her toast.  She walked by everyone and looked at each one of them with eyes of a guilty lemur, instantly and constantly shifting her eyes.  She looked delusional.  A blue jay coming in from one of the open windows near the ceiling landed on one of her guests’ shoulders.  Enraged by the intrusive bird, she ran to him with a tense bite and started swatting his shoulder.  The man guarded himself with his arms.  Shocked and offended, the mistreated man left and brought his date with him. She bowed her head and shifted her eyes left and right noticing audience members were concerned.  Escaping the embarrassment of her actions to the dark hallway, there was no man in a black suit standing by anymore.  Regardless, she enters her room locking the door behind her.  And through her bathroom doorway—at the end of the room—was her already-opened-syringe-filled box.  Her vision blurred every step towards the box but refocused on a fuzzy, green caterpillar crawling on the edge of its open lid.  She slaps the caterpillar palm down but slips off the side.  A grouping of twenty-some needles simultaneously pushed into her skin each entering a different dose into her body.  The intensity of each injection rushing in her veins created an unavoidable pain.  Her arms began to flail while her jaw shifted side to side.  Her eyes rolling back and forth, up and down. When finally she collapsed on to the ground.
Her own body odour brought her back to consciousness. Insects were able to burrow into her easily penetrable, frail skin.  And the constant cawing of irritable crows perched in the leafless trees surrounding her created an uneasy feeling.  She hadn’t been outside for a while as the warmth of the sun’s rays burnt her skin.  The alarmingly thin layer of skin on her forearm that bared multi-coloured veins implied her need of medical attention.  But she was alone and frustrated at the sight of everything near and far.  All that she was and all that she had accomplished was stripped from her.  Her frustration really rooted from her inability to figure out what to do, and she didn’t have any more needles to help her.  She felt nauseous.  Genuinely sickened and upset by the new setting, she collapses—sobbing into her palms.  She’s finally come back and there’s nothing she can do about it.