Before you read this, I just want you to know that I do not condone drug use, nor do I recommend it. I have never used Heroin, so if I'm completely off on this perspective, I apologize. :]

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock is annoying me. It keeps on tick-tick-ticking. Every second that stupid hand moves one more space, and it only reminds me of how long it has been since I've had a hit. I let out a frustrated sigh. The symptoms are getting worse. I idly scratch my arm - the same spot that I've been scratching for the past hour and a half. It's extremely red now and tiny droplets of blood keep getting smudged as I move my fingernails over the irritated skin. It's fucking freezing in here. Which is odd, because a few minutes ago it was blazing hot. God above, is this what getting better feels like? This can't be "getting better"...this is too uncomfortable for "better".

I should probably throw it away. The needle, that is. And the syringe. All of it - I should throw all of it away. I really need to. But I can't. I keep trying to bring myself to just push that fucking needle off the table into the trashcan and take the trash bag to some nearby dumpster. But that's not the right way to dispose of a filthy needle, is it? Someone told me how to do that once...fuck, what did they say? I can't even remember how to get rid of a dirty needle. Damn, I'm fucked up. Not just in the "oh look, I'm high" sense, either. I mean I'm really fucked up. Who does this? Who sits around trying to cure themselves of a heroin addiction without any help? And who leaves the fucking needle on the table across from them? Me, I suppose.

If I didn't have such an innate fear of doctors and their prying, poking hands maybe I would go visit one. A shiver passes through my body and I continue to scratch my arm. The stuff is right across from me. It would be so easy to just...

No. I can't. I'm supposed to kick this shit, and I can't keep answering the voices in my head.

"But it will make you feel better," they say.

"It will alleviate the pain," they whisper.

"All of this will go away, if you just take one more hit. One more hit, and then you're done," they say soothingly.

"One more hit and I'm done...," I hear myself mutter. I watch as my hand reaches towards the needle.

No! I grab my arm and pull myself back. I can't listen to them, they're wrong. It won't make anything better, this stuff only makes shit worse! When I'm on it, all I can think about is getting another hit, getting paid so I can buy more so I can get another hit, meeting the guy so I can give him everything so I can get another fucking hit! Everyone that I once knew has abandoned me because of this. I can't risk to lose myself again. I don't want to die. Not like this.

The voices are silent, and all I hear is that fucking clock. I close my eyes as another cold flash comes on. I scratch my arm harder and harder. I can feel the skin ripping away, but it's numb at the same time. I pull myself onto the hotel bed, nearly losing my stomach as I do so. I roll onto my back and stare up at the cracked ceiling. Look at me. I'm in some crappy hotel, all alone, fighting for myself, and I'm losing. I squeeze my eyes tighter and tighter, then open them again. I see colorful swirls against the white ceiling.

I need help.

I turn my head to look at the phone. I could call somebody, you know. I could. But I know that I won't. I know that this attempt is failing. I look up to the table where the needle and syringe sits enticingly. I let out a quiet sigh and a few tears roll down my face. What have I done to myself?

I pull myself up and stand up from the bed, almost losing my balance. I walk over to the table, grab the needle, and return to sit on the side of the bed. I stare at the weapon in my hand. I let out a whimper. I really don't want to...but I do.

"Only one more hit, and then you're done," the voice whispers faintly.

"One more hit...," I trail off. I take it, and fall back onto the bed.