Addicted to the Rush

For the writing competition this year I wanted to enter this. It's said to write about your day and what not so here it is. The very beginning of my day. I'll develop this into a full story if people are interested in it. We all have a story, and this one is mine. I'd like to share it with you.

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1. Deal With the Devil

I started dying before the snow, and like the snow, I continued to fall. I fell from the sky to crash down against a harsh reality of abuse to myself and the ones I loved the most. My mother had no idea and I'm glad, but a small part of me wishes she did- I wanted her to scream at me, call me worthless and send me packing homeless; after all it's what I deserve to be frank. 

 

There was always a pair of eyes on me, the Devil lived in my abuse and I couldn't escape him for the life of me, God knows I tried. But today I lay in my bed after a night of no sleep- shaking, sweaty, and vomiting; constant convulsions erupted through my entire body causing me to double over in utter pain and cry out as the feeling took me over. 

 

I heard my mother having a casual conversation with my sister- I found it ironic that they were laughing, smiling, clueless to the idea that I was sinking further into my own personal hell. I tried to focus on her soft voice- soothing and relaxing, I wasn't able to make out the words she was saying but I could hear the happiness and joy in her. I was pissed at myself- the woman has sacrificed everything for me, she would give her right arm for me, step in front of a bullet for me. And here I am, a junkie laid up in bed pale and distraught. Is this what she deserved? How disappointing would it be to see now?

 

"Mother..." I whispered to myself knowing no one would hear me. I tossed over in my bed as if trying to escape the feeling of death.

 

I started to think about my close friend; Abby. The thought of her eased me some- I thought about when I showed her my favorite place in town. An island across the river there's a train bridge that connects Quincy to Missouri, we call it The Train Bridge for, well, obvious reasons. Abby and I hiked through the woods of the island and on the soft sand next to the river. It was tough, the uneven terrain tested our stamina, but we were filled with the excitement of getting to the pillar above the water. So we climbed the steep hill made up of sand and rocks. The end bridge rested on a concrete block that we hoped up on, then laid on our backs to actually get to the tunnel under the bridge. Now, reader, believe me when I say it was about a 300 foot drop when looking down from the thin rusted foot path. 

 

It took us about two minutes to get to the first pillar, we climbed out on to the balcony that over looked the river and it was beautiful. The sun was warm on my skin, a slight breeze rang through the tall cables on the bridge and everything was so still for a moment. Abby loved the idea of this- we saw a train coming and pressed our backs against the railing so we could see it zoom passed. "Welcome to Quincy!" Abby laughed and waved at the train, "where the kids hang out on bridges!" We both laughed and sat down, she took out some cards and we played. We were up there for I don't know how long, but we decided to go back when it got dark.

 

My eyes snapped open, I vomited in the trash can next to me and took several deep and raspy breaths. The pleasant memory of Abby and I was stolen from me, my fist connected with the wall beside me. A fire shot through my arm and the next thing I knew, I couldn't move my fingers. Tears started to form in my eyes, but I didn't care. I hit the wall again and cried out in pain. Again. 

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again until I saw blood smeared on my wall. Again until my knuckles were swollen. Again until  my hand was bent and twisted in a strange position, I wanted to focus on that pain rather than the withdraw pain.

 

I stood and walked to my dresser and took out the hellish case that I swore I wouldn't go back to. Just the sight of it eased me. I used my good hand to undo the lock and take out my instruments. A spoon, syringe, alcohol swabs, and smack. I heated up the spoon until I had a liquid to suck into the syringe. I flicked out the air bubbles then swabbed my arm before stabbing the needle in my vein, then forcing the drug to run through me.

 

Instant relief shot through my body, a warm deep calm casted over me. I smiled and slid down to the floor against the wall, needle still in my vein. I forgot about all the pain and struggle I was going through a few minutes ago. I loved this feeling; my broken hand felt nonexistent. Nothing was bothering me anymore, I was free. I allowed myself to close my eyes and slip into a much needed sleep and enter the motherland. I mentally signed a contract with heroin, agreeing that I take this dose knowing that it might possibly be the last one I ever shoot up.

 

When I woke up, I found I was in a hospital bed surrounded by family and a police officer.

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