I sit on this horrendously smelling couch. Again. This place. That smell. No matter how often I sit here, it never escapes me. It smells like piss and vomit, and still, I return here. Every day. Sometimes more than once. Because my friend calls me. In front of me is a low table. The legs have been sawed off to make it this low. It’s full of crap. Mostly crap. Some things on the table are important. Very important. Worth a fortune and the owner’s bliss. My hand sweeps over the table, and I roam through the little foils and tiny bags to find what I am looking for. Most of them are empty. My hand is trembling. I need it. Soon. I feel like crawling out of my skin and tearing out my hair. I crave it! My legs start shaking; I can’t keep them still. It’s like they are dancing with my best friend, but I am not invited. Not yet. My hands become more desperate and less precise. A prick on my finger. I don’t care where it came from. I need it!! I leave a little trail of blood-red drops on the table, decorating everything morbidly. But I don’t care, and I know that nobody else will either. We all just care about one thing.
We are in this together, and we are looking for the same thing. And I found it. A precious little package. I empty it over a spoon, before holding the bent and used cutlery over a candle. Candles, the whole room is lit by candles. Candles everywhere. The only light in the otherwise dark room. The stuff takes too long to melt on the spoon, and I start fumbling with my free hand, to roll up my sleeve. I want to be ready when my friend is ready. Again, I rummage around the table, and soon, I find what else I have been looking for — a syringe. For a moment, I wonder if it’s the same one that stung me earlier and if it is clean. But my urge to get my fix lets me forget those thoughts. My need is bigger than the thought about preserving my health. I don’t go to the doctors anyway. I have no idea if I am infected or not. I don’t care. The others don’t care either. We share everything. We are in this together. Always looking for the same thing, sharing the same best friend.
With trembling fingers, I fill the syringe. I need it. I need it now — no more time to waste.
My arm is ready. The vein is sticking out, eager too. The needle enters my skin. I always do this softly, gently. I like the feeling of the metal breaking my skin — a gentle penetration. At first, my skin resists, but then it gives in, losing the fight, and the sharp needle quickly warms inside my vein. I push down, and the calming escape from reality enters my body. I feel it flowing through my veins, spreading inside of me. It isn’t a stranger nor an unknown. It is my friend. I pull the syringe out and throw it on the table. I am not caring anymore. I found bliss.
My friend makes me tired. Always so tired, and he takes me to a dreamland. He helps me escape the grotesque face of reality. I inhale deeply and let myself float on a cloud of cotton. High and higher, I am rising in the sky. I can see down and look at all those people that want to hurt me. They can’t reach me, here on my cotton cloud high in the sky. No evil can reach me. My friend is there to protect me. He engulfs me with his warmth, and I feel safe as long as he is with me. Better than sex. Much better than sex. They don’t satisfy me anyway. They – the johns. They get off, and I get the money to buy an orgasm of my own. One that always comes. Always. Except sometimes. Sometimes, my friend refuses to come to me to help me forget. Sometimes, instead of flying higher and higher up in the sky, he lets me fall, shoves me down the stairs hard. And it hurts. The deception always hurts. But it’s because he loves me and he wants me to be with him longer and more often. He is possessive, my friend. And I want him. Only him. Only me. Only us. Together, we can conquer the world.
Nobody else matters. Nothing else matters. When he lets me down, I fall deep. I am afraid without him. I am scared to death without his warmth. It makes me cower in the corner of the dark unfurnished room. Far away, where no candlelight can reach me. I make myself as small as possible. Invisible. I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear the screams. Make them go away! I close my eyes. I don’t want to see those faces. Make them go away! I wish for someone to hold me. Save me!
Leave me alone! I don’t need to be saved. Don’t touch me! I can’t have anyone touch me. I’ll break into tiny little pieces, like a glass that has fallen down and broke. And the shards will hurt and cut me deep.
Today, my friend didn’t let me fall. I open my eyes. I feel free. I feel good. I feel excited. I own the world. I see the zombies passed out around me. I am not one of them. My friend makes me invincible. I am not one of them. Not until the next time my friends calls me. Not until the next time I need him. My best friend, H.
(Originally written and posted on this very blog in 2013 and edited quite subtly today. H obviously stands for Heroin)