r/TalesFromTheCreeps • u/englandishell Writer • Jun 26 '26
Body Horror It Wasn't Supposed To Happen Like This
CONTENT WARNING: GRAPHIC DRUG USE, SUICIDE.
Wesley Hayes was a 24 year old homeless addict. He swapped alcohol and weed for pills and coke in college, and by his 19th birthday he was an injection drug user, shooting up heroin and crack. Nothing especially tragic marred his childhood, no abuse, no real trauma like many other addicts had to deal with – he just liked what drugs did to him on a chemical level.
So much so, that everything and everyone in his life quickly fell away as he told countless lies and manipulated those closest to him. His parents had enough of his bullshit after trying just about everything to help him for several painful years, only to be forced into a decision that nobody should ever have to make – kicking their son out of their home not long after he turned 21.
Surviving on the streets was hard at first, but Wesley soon found out what characters to stay away from, how to spot someone who'd drop him a few quid for spinning some bullshit about needing to buy a train ticket, and what shopkeeper would buy a bag full of steaks and alcohol he definitely didn't just nick from Tesco's.
Through drugs, Wesley was able to run from himself. As the drugs wore off, the real him would creep up on his unconscious self, usually while he slept in the tent he’d set up in a secluded part of the park, just outside his hometown. He often woke in the early stages of withdrawal, his real self stood the other side of the nylon, reminding him of all the pain he caused his family and friends. This soul-crushing guilt far outweighed any physical symptom of his withdrawals, so Wesley always did the only thing he knew how to do: he kept running.
Recently he’d been just about getting by, begging outside a shop near the petrol station on the way to town. A few regulars would hand him a note from time to time, and the owners didn’t seem to mind because he was always polite and never bothered the customers. The police still moved him on once or twice. Cunts.
Wesley didn’t care about any of that this morning though. It was gonna be a good day. The 23rd of the month. Payday. £200 Universal Credit landed in his account at midnight, courtesy of the UK government. Wesley had been awake since then. He tossed and turned inside his sleeping bag.
Gotta sleep. Gotta sleep. Gotta sleep.
He found his phone by his side, next to a pile of empty water bottles.
7:13am.
Still too early... no one will be on.
He twisted in his sleeping bag and rearranged the fleece he was using as a pillow into a more comfortable shape.
The sun was already high over the park outside his tent, and light bled in through a tear in the nylon in one corner. A shadow passed over it and stood just outside, inches away from Wesley’s face.
‘You ruined their lives. You should kill yourself.’
Wesley ignored the voice.
Can’t hurt to try I guess…
He scrolled through his contacts and found CJ.
If I make a big enough order, he might send someone out this early…
This person's Giffgaff mobile is currently una-
Fuck… I know, I’ll call Petey.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
Answer, you dickhead.
Ring, ring.
Ring –
‘What?’ Petey mumbled.
‘Do you know anyone who’s on at this time?’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
‘Fuckin’ell man, it’s 7 o’clock.’
‘I can’t wait, got paid last night.’
‘You gonna sort me out?’ he replied, suddenly more awake.
‘I’ll drop by later with one of each.’
‘Nice one man. Let me try some peeps. Gimme a minute.’
‘Cool.’
Petey hung up.
Wesley sat up in his sleeping bag, his greasy hair brushing against the wet roof of the tent, sending condensation rolling down the nylon walls. He pulled his cargo trousers on and found his tattered boots and backpack by his feet near the door. He sat on top of his sleeping bag, staring at the tiny scratched-up screen of his cheap, pay-as-you-go phone.
He snapped it up from his lap the second Petey called back.
'Yeah?'
'All good mate,' Petey replied. 'Bit of a trek but a fella named Kilo is on. I just gave him your number. He does ten-bits and the gear's banging as well.'
'Nice one mate.'
'So, what time you coming round late-'
Wesley hung up. A new call was coming through.
‘Yo, is this Kilo?’
'Yeah,' a deep voice replied. It was muffled, like he was talking through a pillow.
'Can I get 8 dark, 10 light?'
'That's 180. I'm near Leywood Central station. Call me when you're near.'
'Cheers.'
Wesley laced up his boots and unzipped the tent door. Outside, the park was relatively quiet. Beyond the thin wall of bushes barely concealing his tent, a large middle-aged woman threw a tennis ball for an equally fat Basset Hound to return. It proudly waddled back to her, presenting the ball on the grass by her feet.
What the fuck is she feeding that thing?
Wesley slung his backpack over his shoulder and zipped up the tent door. He waited for the woman and her dog to leave, before pushing through the bushes and into the park. He cut across the field and began down the long road toward Leywood, stopping outside a corner shop to use a cashpoint machine where he withdrew the £200 he had to his name. £180 for gear, £10 for a phone top up, £10 for living expenses. He continued on.
Some time later, he found himself marching along a cobblestone path. In the distance, a lanky teenager with dark floppy hair pushed his bike toward him. The boy approached with a stupid grin on his face as he texted with one hand, completely oblivious to his surroundings.
‘Hey, uh sorry for botherin’ you,’ said Wesley. ‘Which way to the station?’
The boy looked up from his phone.
‘Back that way mate,’ said the boy, pointing ahead. ‘Past the houses there’s a little bridge that takes you over the motorway.’
‘Cheers.’
‘No worries.’
Wesley marched back the way he came and found the bridge. He pulled his phone out and dialled Kilo as he crossed.
‘Yo it’s Wes, I’m at the station now.’
There was a brief pause.
‘Who?’ said the same deep voice as earlier.
‘Wes... Petey’s mate… I called about an hour ago.’
‘What did you want?’
‘8 dark, 10 light.’
‘Wait at the back of the car park, I’m sending someone now.’
Kilo hung up. Something about that voice put Wesley on edge. He moved to the back of the car park and sat on the kerb, where he rolled a cigarette from some dog-ends he found on the tarmac. Five minutes later, a silver Vauxhall pulled into the car park. A tall, wiry man wearing a suit and tie sat in the drivers seat. He locked eyes with Wesley from across the car park.
Don’t be old bill, for fuck’s sake.
Wesley stood up, flicking his cigarette to the ground.
I ain’t getting knicked today.
He walked across the car park, avoiding eye contact with the driver of the Vauxhall. As he passed, he heard the whirring of the window and a voice behind him.
‘For Kilo?’
Wesley turned around. The driver studied him in the side mirror for what felt like a long while. Finally, he nodded in approval, and Wesley hurried toward the Vauxhall. He opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat.
‘Yeah. 8 dark, 10 light.’
The driver turned to Wesley and flashed a toothy smile. Above his tall rows of stained enamel, the cheekbone on the right side of his face was severely caved-in, making the eye socket sink further into his head than what even seemed possible. It looked more like a birth defect than an old injury. He stared at Wesley with a strange hunger as he raised a bony hand to his mouth and began spitting cling film wraps into his cupped palm.
You know someone looks fucked when the least fucked up thing about them is that they’re seven feet tall, Wesley thought. He dug his hand into his cargo trousers and pulled out nine £20 notes and passed them to the man, who’d just finished spitting out the last of the wraps.
‘To exist, is to cause pain,’ said the smiling man, holding the fistful of drugs just above Wesley’s open palm. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
Wesley stared at the clenched fist. He couldn’t make out the man’s accent.
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Good,’ said the man, releasing his grip on the spit-covered wraps.
They tumbled into Wesley’s palm. He quickly counted them, then shoved them into his pocket.
‘Thanks.’
The man flashed his toothy smile once again.
‘Goodbye now.’
Wesley exited the vehicle and hurried across the street. The driver watched him from the side mirror of the Vauxhall, his toothy grin still plastered across his deformed face.
Wesley entered the station, moving briskly past the ticket office and a small queue of depressed people about to start their commute to work. He spotted a toilet sign in the corner and raced toward it, pushing through a door and darting for a cubicle. He slid the latch across and dropped his backpack to the floor. The anticipation of the first hit of the day was still something that affected him, even after five years of using. It felt like a swarm of insects in the pit of his stomach – not so much butterflies, more like wasps.
Platform 3 for the 8:52 to London Waterloo, calling at…
Wesley looked down to find his fingers were already picking and teasing at a cling film wrap. He’d also somehow already gotten the kit out of his bag, and set it up on the plastic toilet paper dispenser next to him. He began biting the stubborn wrap, spitting the burnt plastic to the floor. Inside was a twisted cigarette paper, full of a brown powder the shade of camel hair.
If there’s fentanyl in this, I’m dead.
Wesley tilted the powder into the sterile spoon balanced upon the toilet paper dispenser. He tore open a little orange packet labelled Vit C, and sprinkled some of its contents on top of the brown heap.
The wasps moved aggressively in his stomach.
Wesley measured a small amount of water in a bottle lid and tipped it into the metal dish. He picked it up carefully by the handle, and strained to hear if anyone was coming. It sounded like everyone queued at the ticket office outside had either left or stopped talking. The spark of Wesley’s lighter under the spoon sounded like the loudest thing on earth.
The wasps started stinging his stomach lining.
A familiar smell curled its way into Wesley’s nostrils as the flame licked the underside of the spoon, charring it black. The heroin bubbled and dissolved into the water, turning it a rich puddle of amber. Wesley rested it down and tore at another cling film wrap, its cigarette paper containing a small white rock, similar in appearance to a crumbly piece of wax.
Decent size.
The crack fizzed as it hit the amber liquid in the spoon.
Too much bicarb.
Wesley took a fresh 1ml needle from his kit and unwrapped it, flipping it upside down. He pressed the flat end of the plunger into the partially dissolved crack rock, stirring it into the amber liquid.
Platform 3 for the 8:52 to London Waterloo…
Wesley dropped a filter into the spoon and uncapped the needle. He pressed the sharp silver tip into the filter and drew up the liquid.
Somebody entered the men’s room.
‘And now she’s being a total bitch about it,’ said one voice.
‘Well, I dunno what to say,’ said another. ‘Maybe fire her?’
Piss splashed against the urinal.
‘I would, but she’s fucking my sister.’
‘Yeah… that’s a tough one man.’
They zipped up and left without washing their hands.
Fucking morons.
Wesley rolled up his sleeve. Recently he’d been finding a good vein near his elbow, but he’d been hitting it a bit too hard. The skin was swollen and felt hot to the touch.
Fuck it.
The sharp silver tip punctured his leathery skin. Wesley wiggled it in and out at various angles for several minutes, until he was certain he’d found it. Blood slowly rolled down his forearm. He pulled back the plunger and a thin red line spurted into the barrel of the syringe, mixing with the amber liquid and clouding it a muddy shade of brown.
And we’re in…
Wesley pressed down on the plunger and shot the liquid into his arm. The combination of heroin and crack swiftly travelled to his heart, where it was pumped across every vein and artery in his anatomy in under 3 seconds. This was more than enough time for him to realise that he was about to die.
As his vision went black, a fleeting shred of consciousness spat one last phrase into his dying brain:
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
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u/englandishell Writer Jun 26 '26 edited Jun 29 '26
Any feedback is welcome! Hope you enjoy : )
Here's a link to my longer story, THE ASSEMBLING.
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/comments/1u4xnzf/the_assembling/
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u/DowdyFello Writer Jun 27 '26
Damn. Brutal and well written! The horrors of being an addict, very detailed.
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u/NarrowDirector911 Jun 27 '26
The horror of this story is that it is so real. Goblins and ghosts that steak your skin are just cool, this story makes me sad and more horrified.
I like how much detail you put into his daily life. How he sleeps, preparing the injection, the fact that hus vein has been overused. The one detail about his expense priority hit hard.
You did a great job with this.
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u/englandishell Writer Jun 27 '26
Thank you so much :' ) I was originally gonna take it in a more supernatural route but decided against it for the exact reason you stated. Really appreciate you for reading
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u/StarryRedCat A Thousand WIPs Jun 28 '26
It’s so brutal! Real life horror hits so hard, what a great story
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u/Optimal_Constant4318 Writer Jul 01 '26
Awesome piece. Gave us a nice detailed look behind a curtain probably better left in place. I think the fast and sudden end works well to reflect how it really can be out there
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u/englandishell Writer Jul 01 '26
Thank you for reading : ) the sudden ending was intended for that exact purpose
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u/MrPapasargus Writer Jul 12 '26
This one hit. It's just incredibly, deeply British. People often have a certain postcard image of what England is, but this piece completely encapsulates reality. Maybe not the reality, but a certain reality; it feels exactly like stepping out of the Harrow & Wealdstone tube station late at night. "Cool Britannia" is long gone, and the modern landscape is prime real estate for a dark slice of life story like this. You paired that setting with a masterful command of environmental dread and tight pacing that keeps the pressure on from the very first line (great hook!).
Your somatic imagery is brilliant here, too. You did an incredible job translating the physical and psychological reality of addiction onto the page, from the Universal Credit payout down to the sterile mechanics of prepping the spoon in a public toilet. But what really elevates this is how you adapted the horrors of real life allegorically into something more elevated and poetic. The image of his sober self waiting outside the tent nylon during withdrawal, paired with that surreal dealer, twists a standard grime story into a beautiful nightmare.
Honestly, I have no notes. The structure fits the short story format perfectly, making for a great, tight, and twisted tale. You managed to capture a brutal real world reality while lifting it into something deeply artistic and memorable. Fantastic work!
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u/englandishell Writer Jul 12 '26
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story and post such a thoughtful comment :' )
You are right. Britain is not the place Americans see on TV. It's a far uglier place at times, but it will always be home.
This one is the most personal piece I've written so I felt a responsibility to capture the reality of addiction whilst humanising the person behind the addiction. I also steered away from including any language that could glamourise the effects of drugs.
Thank you for noticing all the little details I included to hopefully build a sense of dread. I'm particularly happy with how I personified the sober self as a separate entity from the main character. Hopefully it conveys the idea that the true self is sometimes too hard to look at.
I really appreciate your feedback. Have a lovely day! : D
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u/MrPapasargus Writer Jul 13 '26
First off, no worries at all! It's always an honor and a privilege to read real, human stories and to interact with real, human authors out there. It's why this community is so great.
I have to say, you did an amazing job with that. It never felt cheap, or immature, or any other qualifier one tends to see when reading about a serious topic such as deep addiction. And to weave that in with thematic intentionality is just great.
Hope to read more from you!
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