Momma's Fallen Angel This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

September 13, 2010
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The devil came to me in the shape of a syringe and one of Momma’s pretty silver spoons. His voice was a whisper of pure pleasure along my skin while the flame from the cheap Bic lighter burned against the spoon. His hands were gentle and sweet when he slid the needle into my soft flesh. Goosebumps popped up all over my body as his sweet elixir rushed through my veins. My head fell back against the wall, my copper hair a mass of unruly curls pooling around my waist.
My eyes went glassy from the sensual shock of my choice drug. I was floating above my body, surfing on the turbulent seas of my high. Nothing could touch me, nothing could reach me. My brain no longer functioned. I can think of no words to accurately describe the level of freedom I reached with a single hit.
My seemingly numb body began to shudder. Small, pale hands ripped at the carpet. Glassy blue eyes rolled up into my head. My heart wildly and my breath rushed through lips numb and bloody from biting. Then all was silent and all was still. The paramedics told Momma that I had died quickly and it was doubtful that I had felt any pain.
I stood there not quite comprehending what had happened. I watched as Momma collapsed into a mass of tears and still refused to believe. I watched with a sense of unreality as the body was loaded onto a stretcher and taken away. I’m not sure how long I stood there, numb and afraid. Time seemed to have lost all meaning to me. I stared at the wall where I’d be lying.
Suddenly a man appeared beside me. He had dark hair that hung loose to his shoulders. He wore black from head to toe. Even his eyes were a deep onyx. He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned me to him. His voice was deep, throaty, and desperately arousing. It struck a memory and I was suddenly filled with dread. I would like to state at this part of my tale that this was not the first time I had shot up. I had not planned on it being my last.
My hands trembled when I shoved the dark man back. I thought perhaps I could run, but I knew that I could never escape the Master of puppets. Fear overtook me as I realized just how far I had gone to get high. People say junkies know no limits when it comes to their drug of choice. People would be right.
I had lied, cheated, stolen and now, now I had made a deal with the devil. The picture of my last few hours of life was horribly clear now. So desperate was I for a hit, just one, single hit, that I had offered the devil anything he desired. It had been he who had heated Momma’s good silver spoon with the obscenely pink lighter. And again it had been he who tied off my arm and he who slid the needle into the quietly pulsing vein. Apparently even Satan grows impatient for he had ripped my soul from my oblivious body.
The dark man stepped forward again and ran his hand down my hair in what could be mistaken as a lover’s embrace. I tried to step back but was firmly caught in his grip. Now I stand here on the verge of H*ll and recount my tale. I look around me with bloodshot eye. There are others here, many who look like me, but none will meet my eye. The dark man places his hand on the small of my back and with the slightest amount of pressure, shoves me into the crater of H*ll.

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Macx14 said...
Sept. 15, 2010 at 7:50 pm
I like this. Really deep and really well-written. Keep up the good work!
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