𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 ▸ 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝘁𝗲𝗻. hang loose

~𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗱𝗼𝗺 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼, 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂~

All clear. Lana threw her head back, her hands and feet fell limp with relief.

'But I presume you'll be rubbishing all that with another hit tomorrow morning, would that be right?' said Renton. It only took a few weeks for him to look infinitely lighter. He hadn't looked so alive since he was fifteen years old. Of course, this didn't negate the seemingly eternal weeks of attending bingo with his mother and sitting through impromptu lectures delivered by his father whenever the hint of an opportunity presented itself. The pain of withdrawals was child's play compared to the impending hours upon hours of incurable boredom. Misery. He'd told Lana he would've felt low enough to top himself had she not visited him each day, bringing any of the required supplies from the shops, pecking him on the lips with each departure in the evenings.

Fondly, she replied, 'You look nice today, Mark.'

His head tipped. He kicked off the grafted pair of Converse by the front door of his flat to join Lana laid so desirably on his sheets. 'That right?'

She nodded and grinned beautifully.

'And when are you gonna get off the skag so you can do sommet about it, eh?'

Heroin had robbed Renton of his sex drive, but now it returned with a vengeance. And as the impotence of those days faded into memory, grim desperation took hold in his sex-crazed mind. His post-junk libido, fueled by Lana's naturally teasing, flirty personality, tainted him remorselessly with his own unsatisfied desire.

Her smile faded. 'All clear, though,' she said so hopefully it didn't really sound right. 'More than we can say for some. Did you go see him?'

'Aye.'

'Still no Lizzy?'

'Heard she's spitting on the ground every time his name comes up. Said he's thinking about getting her a present or something. Can't you just talk to her?'

'Why me? She takes me about as seriously as she takes Sick Boy – at least he's got that perverted brothel conquest behind him to act as if he's in business.'

Lana was adamant that she would not be visiting Tommy before she and Mark would set off for London. The hours were ticking down relentlessly in that awful way time often tended to. Only a day now. They'd been promised a relatively cheap bedsit in West Kensington, fully furnished, and Mark had even secured a place within an estate agents. For now, they lived in his flat, checking in with his parents every so often, trialing the life that awaited them at the end of the long, dark journey. And admittedly, she enjoyed the peaceful existence. Lana had weaned herself down to one hit per thirty-six hours. No methadone. Mark was regularly getting hash at a far better quality than the likes of Mikey Forrester, meaning the pair of them spent most evenings smoking away their young, frazzled minds.

The evenings were Lana's favourite. Mark's too, truthfully. Top Of The Pops, mind-numbing television, wistful blabber from the pillows about how happy they would be to exist purely within their own social conventions. Lana would often bring up the idea of changing her name when they reached a place where no one else had screamed it, but always concluded with the disappointing revelation that she couldn't think of anything to change it to.

Mark preferred being able to see her, hearing the sharp, sarcastic quips, witnessing the twinkle in her irises with every exciting idea he presented. As she sat back against the headboard in her t-shirt and underpants, flicking through his books and magazines, tapping a joint over the ashtray nestled on the covers, he clawed back a piece of that satisfaction that had been snatched from him. It was nothing on the scales of establishing a new equilibrium, simply contentment that there was a cool bird smoking in his bed. The "bird" in question being Lana Gardyns was undoubtedly the best bit.