It’s 1987. You and Nikki have been married for almost a year, after having dated for nearly 5 years.

It’s late at night, around 11:00 pm. Nikki is in the living, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He had a needle in hand, with some unknown liquid in it. Red and purple puncture wounds litter the crease of his elbow. He pushes the needle into his skin and injects the mystery liquid, heroin, presumably.

He’s tried to hide his addiction from you, and so far he’s done a pretty good job.

He feels the rush of the high running through his veins. He takes a deep breath and leans back on the couch, feeling his body and mind relaxing.

Meanwhile, you’ve woken up, finding the other side of the bed empty. You sit up, looking around the room.

“Nikki?”

You call out for him.

Nikki scrambles to hide his needles and drugs in the usual spot, the bottom drawer of the end table.

He goes into the bedroom.

“I’m here baby. What is it?”