The Last Shot

June 24, 2011
Junk is my lover, my escape, and the reason for my selfishness. Mess with my junk and you mess with me. When I look at the track marks racing up my arms, I see a different journey with each mark, the journey of getting high. My face is one of the dead, creeping through life. When I look at my sunken, wandering eyes, I see someone with a secret, locked deep within her soul. When I look at my slender body, I see wounded beauty, forested deep beyond the shadows of deadly drugs. I don't know why I'm so addicted. I guess it makes me forget about all of the pain for a little while. I've been through a lot. It's just my dad and I, my mother died when I was little. I am not a supporter of breast cancer. My dad is indescribable, he knows all about me, but he doesn't know about junk. He just thinks I'm delusional most of the time. Sometimes I want him to notice me, to notice how broken I am. He calls me his little china doll because I'm so slender, but I don't think he really knows just how fragile I really am. This story I am about to tell you isn't about getting high, it is much more than that. It is the realization that getting f***ed up isn't what it's cracked up to be. It is the story of redemption from the devil's grasp.

Thank the devil; no one is home. Not that I would care. This place is just somewhere that I sleep at night and leave in the morning. I'm aching for one more moment of pure bliss. Ah, the magic of heroin. One plunge and you'll never go back. I slide into my diabetic dad's bedroom and go straight to his medicine drawer, where his needles are stashed. He has to take insulin every morning. The color of the plunger is beckoning me to proceed with caution, just like the color of the traffic light before it turns red. The black numbers scaling down the barrel of the needle are my mental countdown. 10 cc's until the junk is in my system. The point of the needle is my sign of rebellion; one prick and you're in for one hell of a ride. I don't feel guilty about stealing my old man's sticks. He doesn't taken his insulin like he's supposed to, so he wouldn't miss these things. I find a syringe and get right into my bathroom.

As I look into the mirror once more before I proceed, I see something other than just a reflection. I see a girl who just wanted to get rid of the pain, one way or another. I see a girl who is married to the devil and addicted to his magic. I see myself withering away, like a dying flower without a single drop of water to save her. The only thing that can save her is man-made.

As I sit on the edge of the bathtub, I glance at the cracked tiles and the stained mirror. I wonder which tile I hid the heroin behind. I finally see the Sharpie-dotted tile and get out my precious gem. I smile momentarily, thinking about how this tile is like a treasure chest that no one else can find; it's my own little secret. I lay out my supplies like a doctor prepping for surgery. As I cook up the glorious junk, I'm fixated on the beauty of this process. Seriously, one plunge and you're in an illegal heaven. What more can you ask for? I take off my belt from my Hey Monday vintage jeans and strap it around my forearm, tightening it. My old faithful vein pops up, ready for some good ol' medicine. As I draw in the devil's saliva, my heartbeat quickens as adrenaline pulses though my body. I think of nothing else but getting high, leaving Earth for a little while and floating in my own little universe. I see a burs of blood as I start to drive the needle into the crook of my elbow. My arms shake with excitement. I steady the needle, take a deep breath, and push the plunger until every last bit is gone. I see one last droplet waiting at the edge of the barrel. If I could open the syringe and drink the last drop, I would. As the heroin surges through my body, I embark on a journey I will never forget, I fly through my mental clouds and soar with my heroin wings through a world that I've created through drugs, a world no one can take away from me.

The Black Eyed Peas has nothing on this feeling. I feel like I'm heading towards my own universe, hidden between the moon and the stars. My whole body goes slack as I lean against the wall adjacent to the bathtub. My breathing becomes slow and steady and I close my eyes as the devil's concoction flows through my veins. The intensity of the high only lasts for a moment too soon and i start sketching.

My brain has flipped the switch and is solely focused on one mission: ice cream. I need to find ice cream. Or. I. Will. Die. Yeah, ice cream is the last I should think about, but ice cream is my first and only priority, as silly as that may seem. My too long jeans dust the linoleum floor as I swirl into the kitchen. I flip on the light and skate across the room, skidding to a stop in front of the freezer side of the fridge. With the freezer doors open, I search for my subject. Bingo. Blue Bunny Cookies N' Cream ice cream is the best flavor. At least to me, it is.

As I reach for the treasure, the rooms start spinning; I can't seem to get the damn ice cream. I try to grasp it. My hands opens and closes, grabbing only empty air as I start teetering back and forth. I propel myself against the nearest counter and hold on for dear life. I feel like I'm on the Titanic when it began to sink, waiting for my life to end, my body crashing into the depths of the frozen ocean. F***, I'm going to die. I rapidly blink my eyes, as panic creeps into my mind, like a virus waiting for the cure. I slide down to the floor, my head knocking against the linoleum in front of the still-open fridge doors, like a rag doll that's just been thrown by a bratty child. Everything goes to s***.

I see the light. Wait. No, it's gone. Damn, I'm going to dance with the devil.

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes, is the smell of rotten meat. Crap, the devil must be burning my ass. I probably deserve it. Wait, never mind. I left the fridge doors open. As my vision clears, I look down at myself, at the track marks, at the soiled jeans, at my tattered shoes. Why did I have to do that? Why did I have to find the nearest drug dealer and buy his damn junk? Why did I use the goddamn plunger, driving it into my skin and further tainting my life? I know the answer to that question: I wanted to leave reality; I wanted to leave the fact that I would never have a mother for the rest of my life. But I can't just waltz through life, high as a kite. I got to do something.

I try to pick myself off of the floor, but I can't seem to move. I can't feel anything. I feel like I'm falling without anything or anyone to catch me. I'm surrounded by nothing. All I see is a dot of light at the end of the blackness. The light is coming closer, enveloping my body. All is bright, but nothing is clear.





Join the Discussion

This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

SickImage said...
Jul. 30, 2011 at 1:02 pm
This is good. Pretty realistic. I'm glad Heroin was your drug of choice. It seems to be a rare writing topic to people who have never done it. I think because it's the hardest to actually get all the detail right, where others are pretty easy to imagine how someone would use the drug and actually feel.
 
bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback