March 26, 2012
By WithShatteredWings SILVER, Choteau, Montana
WithShatteredWings SILVER, Choteau, Montana
7 articles 2 photos 17 comments

Favorite Quote:
You are everything I want cause you are everything I'm not-Taking back sunday

Everything you do in life is insignificant but it is very important that you do-Gandhi

Happiness is an inside job- papa

It was a pleasure to burn, to feel the needle slip under my skin. To feel the hit of the morphine mixed with the bite of battery acid flow through my blood stream. It was a pleasure then. At the moment I’m sitting down on my mom’s crappy old maroon and leather lazy boy couch. I started pushing morphine and BA (battery acid) when I was sixteen. Life was hell and unfortunately still is. I’m seventeen now, so it’s been a year right? I need a haircut. My hair is getting too long for my sense of style.

I’ve dyed my hair so many times that it’s naturally dark these days from all the chemicals that are put into hair dye products. My hair color at the moment is dark brown. My eyes are an emerald green. My hair hangs in my face. As in body built? I’m a skinny white boy that was born in a city called Pierce ridge. Not a very good name is it? Today I’m wearing the ordinary. I have clothes of the same thing most of the time because I like the colors.

I’m wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of worn out faded dark blue baggy jeans that have holes in the knees. I pierced my lip when I was fourteen in the middle of a “professional don’t do drugs” speech at school. Look how far that’s gotten me, funny. I start junior year on Monday. Today is Friday. My mom is at work at the hospital a few blocks away. I need to make a run. One of my friends, Austen Torres, graduated a few years ago and now works at the hospital as a male “nurse”. He already went through college, online, technology these days right. Austen’s my connection to the morphine I need for the hits I get. I pay him eighty dollars a bag. My mom knows about it but doesn’t want to turn either of us in.

This one time, when I first started shooting up, my mom walked in on me while the needle was still in. She freaked out, started screaming. Scared the S***t out of me. I jumped off my bed, tipped over the ashtray that contained the BA and tossed the bag of morphine into the garbage next to my computer. While I tossed the morphine into the trash, my forearm hit the edge of my book shelf and the syringe broke leaving the needle in my vein. God, did that hurt like hell.

Mom’s left me alone ever since then. I got the needle out with a pair of tweezers after I cut my forearm open with a switch blade from my dresser drawer. I bought the switch blade from Austen’s big brother Richie. I don’t know where he got it, but it came in handy. I take it everywhere. Anyway enough about my past for now, forgot to tell you my name. My name is Heath Jacobson. Welcome to my life I guess…

It’s only five past ten. I’m already dressed as I’ve told you before. I grab my wallet, put my black air walks (skater shoes if you want to be stereotypical) on and walked out the door. It’s not cold out, the sky is grey. I’m looking around to see if anyone sees me as suspicious. It’s all clear. As I’m walking down the sidewalk that’s extremely unleveled and has chunks of cement missing from the tree roots that grow on the sides of boulevards and peoples lawns I noticed this guy wearing a black hoodie. A pair of khaki’s on. He kept looking behind and around him for something. I started to walk toward him until he broke the car window he was standing next to.

The alarm didn’t go off so I was a bit surprised. I’m running late so I let the Mr. “I’m wearing a suspicious black hoodie and farmers state bank khaki pants” alone. See? He’s already driving the car. I see the guy who just stole a person’s car drive off a little bit ahead of me. Absent minded I staggered into the busy street barely being missed by a taxi that was apparently in a hurry to get to the station so someone else could start their shift. I realized I’m sort of hungry. I didn’t eat breakfast and I came home late last night. Maybe I could grab something from a vending machine at the hospital. It’s starting to rain. Just a few more minutes and we’ll all be drenched with rain.

I’m already soaked. As I’m walking across this other street, only half a block now from the hospital this white suburban swerves and splashes me with a lot of water. I might be drenched but that’s one of the things I dislike. I ran the rest of the way, got to the front doors of the hospital and examined the building. A two story hospital building, with a lot of windows, the building itself is painted an odd color of red with a creamy trim. The hospitals name is “Erikson’s Avenue.” Sounds like a store or some alternative punk band. I shrugged my shoulders and walked in. The instant the doors closed behind me the scent of old people and the dying filled my nostrils. It’s awful. I walked up to the front desk and saw my mom’s best friend Gretchen Owens at the secretary desk. Look, right there. She’s blonde, slender, blue eyed, and most of the time a real nice girl.

“Hey. Gretchen? Is Austen around by chance?” I didn’t feel like sounding polite.
She stared at me like she knew that’s what I was going to say. She gave me this off look, where she scrunches half of her face then smiles afterwards like she’s glad to see someone she really doesn’t want to see at the moment.

“Hi Heath, Austen just went out for break. Would you like me to give him a message?”
Ha. Nope. I know exactly where he is I thought.
“No thanks.” Then I walked out of the building and started making my way around to the back of the building. There’s security there, just like with every other “Publicly important” building here. Like the airport, or the mall. Hell, even Wal-Mart. Before I left the secretary desk I bet you didn’t see me go for Lincoln Howell’s ID. He keeps it on the side table every day before he goes on break. He and I share some similarities in facial and physical features. It’ll do.

The security guards don’t talk and expect you to show them your identification. They mean to scare you, look intimidating right? Their just two white boys dressed in uniform with tasers. I flash them “my” ID and walk through the gate to the back of the building near the ambulances. I walk through the garage door to where there’s a little dining table to where employees can go onto break. The only one that’s around is Austen.
“Hey Heath.” Austen called out after glancing behind him.

“Hey. I’m here for the, uh, fajita’s?” I tried to think of a cover name for the morphine. Didn’t work very well, we’re both laughing our heads off.

“Dude, you need to think harder about a cover name or people will start mistaking you for a Mexican who snuck into the wrong country for tacos!” Austen’s laughing so hard now the cigarette he’s smoking fell to the ground in a puddle of oil that occasionally leaks from the ambulances. It took us a few minutes to pull ourselves together. Austen, dressed in his casual awesome pacman scrubs, stood up and walked over to this cupboard and pulled out a bag of morphine and tossed it to me.

“There. Now get the hell out of here.” Austen grinned then slipped a Liggett cigarette into his mouth and lit it.
“Thanks. Catch you later.” I felt odd. Austen and I haven’t spoken to each other in a while after I stole two hundred-fifty dollars from his grandparents so I could pay for my fix in advance. He didn’t know it was his grandparent’s money till the day after. He shouldn’t be upset about it anymore. I paid them back with someone else’s money.

I walk out after putting the bag of morphine in this satchel type bag Austen gave me before we said our goodbyes. The security guards, still trying to act tough let me through without ID. I’m on my way home and realized that I’m still hungry because I didn’t stop at a vending machine and the rain stopped. My chest is pounding like crazy. Every time I’m getting ready for a hit I get an adrenaline rush.

I kick my shoes off at the door as I walk into my house. I’m in the kitchen, black countertops with white cupboards. I look in the second cupboard that’s above the sink to the right. Found a bag of TGI: Friday’s bacon and shedder potato skins. These things rock my socks off their so good. I’m snacking on some chips and subconsciously head to my room down the hall across from the bathroom that’s to the right of the house. I set down the potato skins on the desk where my computer is and look at my room. I spray painted my room black, red and grey. It looks like someone splattered paint everywhere. I love it.

My sheets are black along with the quilt and curtains at my window. My closet doors match the walls. Spray painted. I’ve always been a dark person I suppose. I like the dark; it gives me closure from, anything and everything I guess. As I unclip the satchel I set the bag of morphine on my bed while I make my way across the room for the ashtray by the computer. I take the batteries out of my remote and cautiously prick the battery open with my switch blade. The acid pours into the ashtray so I grab for the syringe that’s beside the remote. I took the bag of morphine and stuck the syringe into the bag and slowly filled it halfway with morphine. I filled two centimeters with acid. I can’t hear anything with the adrenaline rushing through my body. I put the syringe to my arm after finding a fresh vein.

I let out a sigh; it bites at the skin before it goes into a vein. I push it in. It begins with a burn then slowly slips into a warm numbness. I’m starting to feel a bit dizzy so I inject more. My chest starts to hurt and it feels like my throat is closing. My arm burns. I look at it; the acid literally pushed the syringe out of my arm. I think I overdid it this time. I don’t care; I can’t feel anything right now. I’m staring at my arm because it keeps bleeding from the acid that’s eating away at my veins. It’s sort of intriguing. Like grotesque like a horror movie or book. I’m watching the acid fizz out of my arm with blood mixed into it.
I feel myself starting to drool. I’m shaking, I can see it. I try to stand up but I stumble and fall over the night stand and hit my head on the edge of the computer desk. I’m staring at my ceiling and thinking if I’m going to make it. I know I’m not going to this time. I pushed the limit too much. I try to stand or at least roll over onto my stomach so I can lift myself up onto the bed but I can’t. I can’t breathe, my vision is fading and I feel like throwing up. I’m coughing up saliva, it tastes like blood. The battery acid made its way to the rest of my body. I’m suffocating on puke, saliva stomach acid. The morphine’s putting me to sleep. I can feel it, along with the acid that’s burning through my veins. It hurts and I can’t do anything about it. I look at my arm; the syringe is hanging by the acidic and blood build up so I push my face toward the syringe. The rest of the morphine goes into my veins. I can tell because it hits your nerves giving you the feeling of a full body headache. I keep staring at the ceiling. I don’t know when I drifted off to sleep but I do know one thing. I never woke up.

The author's comments:
a short story I wrote for english class. My first actual short story.

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