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The sickness had come and gone, the way it always had when he was off the smack for long enough, soon replaced by a dull sense of monotony. The greyscale sky seemed to match his mood as the prison-style bus rattled along to its' destination, the engine coughing and sputtering occasionally. Their desintation, such as it was, appeared to be positioned directly in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. It had been ages since he'd seen so much of a gas station, just endless stretches of cracked earth alongside the desert highway. Darius soon found himself itching for a cigarette, but those were one of the many things you weren't exactly afforded while in jail. Instead, he settled for leaning his head against the glass, exhaling a deep sigh, and waiting. <br/>​</div>He'd been given a flyer, along with everyone else on the bus, and had skimmed through it with a sense of complete disinterest. 'Halfway House' only meant one thing-more rules, more restrictions, and more of those insufferable group therapy sessions where some superficially kind mentor would encourage you to 'stick to the steps' and 'feel all your feelings.' The thought alone made Darius roll his eyes.<i>Feel your feelings. </i>Wasn't that the whole reason he'd gotten into this shit in the first place to avoid doing exactly that?<br/><br/>His reflection stared back at him in the window's reflection, a portrait etched in glass. He looks like shit. His hair, brown and unkempt, hadn't known the grace of a shower and shampoo in a good week or so. He'd lost a tremendous amount of weight, appearing as skinny as all the other junkies in the lot. There were bags under his eyes. All in all, he was a walking target-nowhere near muscular enough to fend off a beating. And he'd taken his fair share, a fact made obvious when he got to his feet and exited the bus with a distinct limp.<br/><br/>As soon as he exited the bus, Darius winced, lifting one hand to rub at his temple. It's too fucking hot already. He was used to the more rainy, coastal atmosphere of the pacific northwest; the desert climate just wasn't made with fellows like him in mind. Nevertheless, he reminded himself firmly that this place would be offering a free bed and free food-and that was more than enough reason to shut up and at least try to get along. True to his assumption, there was nothing around for miles-<i>probably insurance against ditching this place, </i>he thought to himself with a dry chuckle. Too late, he realized he hadn't taken in much of what had been said-probably the usual tripe about<i>staying strong </i>and<i>supporting each other. </i>As if to emphasize that point, a blonde girl (who he supposed was pretty in a<i>could probably kill you </i>sort of way,) flashed him a small smile. Darius didn't return it.  He didn't know about the rest of the people here, but he was already sure that at least half of them would gladly stomp him into a curb if it meant a fix. Hell, he might do the same.<br/><br/>His luggage was....Truthfully, nothing. He'd been roughing it when he was picked up, one of those unfortunates who lounged around on sheets of cardboard, too strung out to really realize how desolate they looked. You had to be high to be homeless; it was the only way to cope. As a result, Darius carried a backpack lovingly provided by the Goodwill Foundation, complete with clothes that either didn't fit or were stained, with sparingly few personal items he'd managed to hold on to. The best taxpayers could buy, evidently.<br/><br/>His room was plain, but that was fine by him. It had a bed. That was the important thing. And, best of all, there was no bunkmate. The guy he'd shared a cell with had been crazy-talking and screaming in fear at things that weren't there. Twice, Darius had gotten his ass kicked-that was where the limp had come from. At least he was on the first floor. Maybe he could make a break for it, if he ran fast enough.<br/><br/>"Should've brought a book or something," he muttered under his breath, unaware that his door was still ajar, and a passerby might very well hear him speak.