The downfall of Detroit

[AbuHossam]

Skye Thompson slowly walked along a buckled cement sidewalk, his eyes searching for an abandoned house. The afternoon sun was baking the city streets relentlessly, and he noticed a column of hot air rising from a nearby parking lot. His T-shirt, soaking in heavy sweat, weighed him down. Feeling light-headed and weak, his pulse pounding rapidly, he spotted a ramshackle house with refuse covering a small, dirt-laden yard. The chaotic presence of garbage fertilized a garden of overgrown weeds, hiding a path toward the boarded-up front door. Broken windows, devoid of glass, surrounded the exterior as rats darted in and out. There were rats everywhere. Skye grew weak as he kicked in the entranceway, peering inside.

Skye gasped for air as he entered the abandoned home, the stench of stale urine and rotting wood weighing heavily in the mold-ridden air. Moving slowly and cautiously, he walked towards the room’s far corner, avoiding the needles, trash, and broken glass that blanketed the floor. This was the bric-a-brac of an addict’s domicile. He found a bug-infested mattress at the back of the room and gradually sat down, his clothes now soaked in sweat. The coughing started again, each painful bark forcefully producing a tablespoon of bloody sputum mixed with yellow mucus. He massaged his hands back and forth over his ribs, attempting to ease the incessant pain that occurred with each breath. He knew he had a chest infection. Two days ago, he received pills from the Free Clinic. He quit taking them when his stomach began raging like a two-alarm fire.

Skye hoped another dose of heroin would stop his throbbing chest pain and persistent cough. Reaching inside the bulging pocket of his trousers, he grabbed his four familiar companions: a rubber tourniquet, a used syringe, a spoon, and a pack of matches. He tightly wrapped the tourniquet around his left arm. His thin, scarred, and calloused fingers tenderly sprinkled heroin powder onto a spoon, covered with the stain of drug residue. The magic began when he applied heat to the powder. The alchemy transformed it into a liquid cocktail he slowly injected into a vein. His breathing slowed to a steady, drawn-out pace as euphoria descended upon him. He was drifting gently into that good night.

Turf battles were never-ending in the inner city, with traffickers constantly battling for turf. A neighborhood drug dealer had been watching the house suspiciously. Peering through a broken glass window, the dealer noticed Skye had passed out, his lips turning the bluish hue of someone who wasn’t breathing. He called 911. His cell phone alerted Detroit’s Emergency Service. Another "drop-off" was ready for the emergency room. An EMS team arrived quickly, entered the house, and found Skye in the corner. Within minutes, they were enroute to the hospital. St. Michael’s was the nearest ER and was Detroit’s best trauma center. Their medical team treated the constant ebb and flow of victims, manifesting the kind of expertise that only comes from years of battle-worn experience.