Stopping for a moment in the darkness, Sam shifts all his weight to his un-injured leg and drinks the rest of the vodka in a single motion, his head back, his arm way in the air.
Pulling the bottle from his mouth, he gasps for air and slams the bottle against the sidewalk, shattering it.
Continuing to walk--or rather limp--forward in the darkness, Sam opens the bag he'd taken from his backseat. Ripping the needle from its sterile wrapping, he checks the tip, and slowly inserts the sharp into a small vial.
Fuck Dante, he thinks, remembering the promise he'd made to his friend just hours before. But so much for being clean. What did it matter really? Either way, he was going to hell.
Pulling back, he slowly fills the syringe with heroin. Glancing up, he searches the dark streets, and finding what he is looking for, he heads in the direction of the alley.