|Taking The Pain Away
Author: Taim PM
A short oneshot based on a drug user. T for implied themes.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 685 - Published: 01-18-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3093276
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
First off, I have never done any kind of drug and have not been around anyone when they have. I don't even know who is using and who isn't. I'm playing by ear on this whole thing, so don't ask me what kind of drug this is. I have no idea. Mostly, it's just little bits and pieces of the things I know about a few.
Second, I have the strangest inspirations. For this one, it was the song "You Know" by Pivitplex. A new band I found, but I haven't heard anything else by them yet.
The needle slips in easily, just like every other time. Fire burned through my veins as the drug spread quickly, my heart pumping faster to move the injection throughout my body at an even greater rate. (Up, up, up!) The high lasted for what felt like days, like seconds, then I began to dive. The low was just as extreme as the high, not the worst I had felt before but still pretty bad. Crashing was bad, always bad. I shot up another dose before I could sink all the way down. (Falling, flying, flying.) I did this multiple times until I felt higher than the moon. The high didn't last long. It feels like years, lifetimes that I stay flying up, up, up. But it also feels like only a short moment when I'm flying.
The low grips me hard, the depression, sickness, fatigue all settling in like familiar parasites. I scratch at the most recent needle-spots, the tiny pinpricks starting to crawl around. I hate those little bugs, the ones living in my skin. (Get out, get out!) I hate feeling used by others, even these little gnats, the little flies and ticks and fleas. (I hate them all for using me.)
As I fell further and further down, stretched awkwardly in the dirty alley, I began thinking. (I hate thinking, too.) It brings back memories, thinking-words. The ones that get the brain to throw up pictures you'd rather not see. The old man with the expensive cane (who had the expensive cane), the little woman with only $6.50 in her purse, the boy with the small line of a cut on his throat. (Mommy handed over the cash quick after that.) I shook my head, pressing the heel of my palms hard into my eye sockets. (Get out of my head! Get out of my head!)
I remembered her words, my dear Ammorie. She had the most horrible look on her face when she caught me shooting up. I snarled at the dirty street, the trash-covered alley (trash-covered soul). She had been so disgusted, so hateful. She hates me? Ha! I hate her! No one can hate better than me. (I know hate, oh yes, I know hate.) Her words came back to me, rushing in and exploding like little cherry bombs. Okay, big cherry bombs. I wanted to gouge my eyes out, tear my brain out just so the pain would stop. (Ah, make it stop!)
Memories of living with Mom, with Dad, memories all coming back. Mom beating me with a belt, a shoe, anything at hand. Dad selling me. I pressed my hands against my eyes harder. (Go away! Go away!) No one understands that pain, not unless they have been through it. (No one understands.)
Through the midst of ghost pain, those words came back to me. Even though she didn't want me at all, she stayed. Only a few words separated us now. She said she wouldn't come back to me unless I quit the drug. (Unless I quit. Stupid girl. I can't quit.) She had evenasked me why. Why? Why?!
More pain exploded behind my eyes. She wouldn't understand, (no one would understand.) I bit my lip hard, biting back the pain. I needed another high, something to chase this away. I pulled out the last of my supply, debating whether to or not even as I prepped another injection. Why? Why..?
The needle slips in easily, just like every other time. Why..?
It's taking the pain away.