Fix

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Inhale. Exhale.
His head pounds as he glances around the dim living room from his corner. A tear in the second-hand sofa. Muddy boots by the door. Paint chipped and peeling.
The throbbing increases, blurring his vision and making his eyes sting. Almost like the thump-thump-thump of a bass drum. Constant. Ceaseless. His hands tremble and cold chills make him shiver and sink deeper into his corner. He pushes himself into it as tight as he can, further from the case. It stares back invitingly, beckoning him forward.
Don't do it. You don't need it.
Head cradled in his palms, he repeats the phrase in a whisper. Over and over he reminds himself that he should be strong. He can be strong. He will be strong. It seems he's there for hours, though it's only a matter of minutes before his head snaps up in defiance.
As soon as he makes the decision the pain starts to dissipate, waning as he draws closer to the case. The frustration, anger, and ache dissolve, leaving only his raw and desperate need. His hands tremble with excitement now as he fumbles with the package. His breath quickens.
The needle suddenly slips through his shaking fingers and falls to the floor. A clear ping! rings out through the silent apartment as it clatters against the dingy tile. The metallic sound catches him off-guard. The dire need alleviates just a bit, causing him to hesitate for the smallest moment. His breath sticks in his throat as he reaches to pick up the needle.
Don't do it. You don't need it.
No.
He grabs the needle and scrapes the tip roughly against the tile, making sure it's completely ruined. Yelling in rage - at himself and his need - he throws what's left of the syringe against a wall, finally collapsing into his corner once again. He hugs his knees to his chest, shaking. He closes his eyes and rocks softly.
The process then begins again, with the little case glaring at him from the table.
Don't do it. You don't need it.