Don Juan protested and retched and writhed, but Samuel held his head and kept going. Letting him off halfway down would not do him any better. He would be withdrawing shortly and Samuel could not give him what he had, because he could not be sure there wasn't still enough opium in him to interact with the substance and mess with something important, like his ability to breathe. "Too late," he told him. "There's no going back with what we're doing, I fear."
Was there ever? He looked into his eyes and found the pupils still constricted to a pinpoint. He would need at least two more drops. On their lone island of light in the abandoned room, he forced two more on him, in quick succession, five seconds apart. Samuel did pity him. He remembered withdrawing, remembered being sick as a dog with no one around who knew or cared. "Look at me," he said and put his weight on the thrashing man, so he did not throw himself out of the chair. Finally, he caught a glance at his pupils and saw them dilate. "And there we are," he said and stroked the man's sweat-gleaming forehead. "Sober. But fear not—only for a moment." He took another cursory glance at his rapidly more lucid-looking eyes. Withdrawals were imminent. He started preparing the next vial. The viscous liquid swirled languidly in the measuring dropper. If he had just thrown Don Juan into a deep chasm of misery, this would take him soaring to the peak. Sam looked at the shimmering drop with longing. Then he turned, to ascertain if Don Juan would be cooperative enough to proceed now.
Was there ever? He looked into his eyes and found the pupils still constricted to a pinpoint. He would need at least two more drops. On their lone island of light in the abandoned room, he forced two more on him, in quick succession, five seconds apart. Samuel did pity him. He remembered withdrawing, remembered being sick as a dog with no one around who knew or cared. "Look at me," he said and put his weight on the thrashing man, so he did not throw himself out of the chair. Finally, he caught a glance at his pupils and saw them dilate. "And there we are," he said and stroked the man's sweat-gleaming forehead. "Sober. But fear not—only for a moment." He took another cursory glance at his rapidly more lucid-looking eyes. Withdrawals were imminent. He started preparing the next vial. The viscous liquid swirled languidly in the measuring dropper. If he had just thrown Don Juan into a deep chasm of misery, this would take him soaring to the peak. Sam looked at the shimmering drop with longing. Then he turned, to ascertain if Don Juan would be cooperative enough to proceed now.
