From behind the gray dinged clutter came a forlorn mewling. Tell tale signs of a Zephyl user lay about the apartment. Syringes, rusted with age sparsely littered the home, almost like they were trying to conceal themselves in a very poor fashion. The luminous blue husks of Zephyl capsules lay near them. The groans continued, sounding as if the embodiment of all things pathetic had signalled it's arrival. Indeed it may have. Behind the empty cartons and boxes, curled up like a pillbug, was Gruden. His large off-white head had a wire that spun continually through where a human's eyesocket would be and around to a point directly across from the opening in the back of his head. It slid sluggishly through the openings, stopping and starting at different intervals. Gruden wore a darker version of grey than his apartment. A burlap shirt and pants were his only wardrobe items. The unfinished pantlegs ended in bare off-white feet. He held his arm and stretched his mouth to emit the mewling. And then took a deep breath. This was the downside of Zephyl. He had been to the mountain top and was now in the valley, or even deeper in the crevasse. The warm colorful feeling of security had left and he now felt like an infant forgotten on the cold pavement with no protectors. On a raining night no less. He might as well have been for all the suffering he was undergoing by his own hand. One of the grey sleeves was pulled up past his elbow. A needle stuck out of a swollen mound of flesh. There were four or five more raised areas just like it on his arm. They looked like giant boils. That was another side effect of the Zephyl. Injections of paradise always left their mark. Gruden sat up, pulling on the side of a chair with one arm to help his weak legs. He almost stood but instead spilled into the seat. He looked down at his arm and brushed the needle out with a quick stroke. It disgusted him how he could wake up with the thing still sticking in him. After ten or fifteen minutes of eye rolling, head lolling and swollen tongue movements, he gathered himself and attempted to get upright again. Slow, short steps took him to a refrigerator. White with brown stains of age, the silver handle clicked open and harsh light spiked into the room. He reached for the orange juice. He remembered a time when he sat in that same apartment with Estelle and Naddy. Breakfasts of orange juice, eggs, potatoes. Oh, but Estelle could cook. Little Naddy with her witch hat would pick at her food and practice grinning at him. Estelle, with her stiched together face and long eyelashes, would offer him ketchup for his eggs. Sometimes she would offer barbeque sauce. The orange juice tasted so good then. Now Gruden was alone. He let the apartment go to hell. Naddy would have been enough motivation to keep it clean in the days before. He would have died inside if she had fallen and so much as bruised one of the little horns on her head. There was no fear of that now. The trash could stay. There would be no children to slip on it.