Chapter One: Heroin

It is a feeling unlike any other, a sensation I can't repeat any other way. It is perfect, perfectly destructive, my hidden vice. The compulsive habit, no matter how carefully I plan for it, is something uncontrollable.

I'm not sure why I do it. Or maybe I am. I'm not content with everything else. I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate…everything.

And most definitely, I hate everyone. Including the person I buy my bliss from. I call it bliss, but it's known by every other name under the sun. And it's known in a few places where the darker parts of human nature eclipse any light. I have heard it all, learned it all, I did research before throwing myself off into the abyss. The effects, aftereffects, fatality rates, all of it.

I suppose you might know it; the chances that you never have heard of it are low. I can't delude myself, much as I wish I could. I know I am no better than every other addict. I'm not emaciated and I'm not homeless; I have a job and a stable life. All of these things cannot change the truth I so meticulously keep hidden.

I am an addict. C21H23NO5 is my poison of choice. Or maybe to you it is something else altogether.

the beast, the witch, snow, speedball, red eagle, reindeer dust, salt, poppy, peg, poison, noise, nanoo, murder one, matsakow, Karachi, joy powder, skag, horse, him, hong-yen, Henry, Helen, hero of the underworld, hero, hell dust, heaven dust, fairy dust, golden girl, duji, cura, black pearl, Aries, white horse

It is

powder white, sepia dust, tar-like black, up the nose, in a heated spoon, clear vial, filling a syringe, water pipe fodder;

so many forms, so many ways to be had.

To me, it is bliss.

Innocuous sounding, oh so pleasant, bought and sold for my own pleasure in a back alley reeking of urine. Usually it comes snow white and oh so pure, pure as hell snow. I buy it in the form of so-called angel's tears. The liquid narcotic is destined for my thirsty veins.

I know something is wrong with me. Beyond the obvious chemical dependency, the thing that motivated me to do this. And even still, I do this. Rationalize it all you want, I don't hurt anyone except myself doing this. There is no one who would be inconvenienced by a sudden overdose, except perhaps the dealer and my boss.

Just like always, five o'clock on Friday.

After the purchase, quick and business like, I return to my Spartan apartment.

Just like always, at six o'clock on Friday, I arrive.

The moment I enter, I disconnect from the world, pulling shut the door and bolting multiple locks and chains. I bypass the empty living room, striding into the barren kitchen. Mail goes on the table, unopened, answering machine unplugged, phone off the hook, cell-phone shut down, thrown onto the counter.

I wind my way into the first bedroom. Everything, every layer linking me to everyone else comes off. Stripped naked, I once again love through my apartment, a paper brown bag in hand. I set the bag on the bare second mattress, impatiently leaving the room.

Scalding hot water, in and out as quickly as possible and I'm done.

The second bedroom with its bare mattress is the place I'll spend the next two days, coming down off my high just before the work week begins again. The four windows have no curtains or blinds to block the view. Next to the mattress sitting at floor level are all the things I'll need. A notebook, a pencil, the paper bag, cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol.

Just like always, I write down the day and time down next to the amount I'll inject; and meticulously place the notebook back in its place. I've noticed the amount has steadily increased, not that I'm surprised.

I can smell the comforting scent of bleach in the room, assuring me that the Thursday cleaning was thorough, just like it always is. One last cleaning, of me and the needle, and I'll be ready. No matter how impatient I am, I have the cold comfort of knowing my high will be as safe as I can make it. I inject every day of course, but when I'm working it's always the lowest dose possible, the barest minimum preventing withdrawal.

I look forward to Friday; it is the day that leads to two and a half days of utter bliss.

The bag crinkles as I open it, and when I empty it onto the bed, it sags; completely void of its burden. I fold the bag neatly along its edges, and it finds its way, just like always, into the blue recycle bin in the dark corner of the room.

I uncap the bottle that can be found in every drugstore and a sharp distinctive scent makes my nose flare. Methodically, I douse the two cotton swabs completely.

Cold on my arm, reeking of cleanliness, antiseptic, uncaring; and then again, on careless stainless steel, making the needle gleam invitingly. The cotton swabs, miniature versions of clouds, promising my own personal heaven find their way into the trash can at the far and dark corner of the room, opposite of the naked mattress and my naked body, splayed out in front of the glass illuminated by the screaming dying red sun.

I put the bottle back up against the notebook, and I feel my breath hitch, my pulse speed, my hands shake, and my mind lusting for the feeling of the singing in my veins, in anticipation, waiting eagerly for the completion of the weekly ritual that my life is too cold to be without.

The glass holding the liquid sits on my mattress as I watch the dust motes floats in front of me, the furious pounding sounding in my eardrums, and finally, finally, my skin and the syringe have dried.

Plunge it down, air escaping. Draw it up, liquid rushing in. Close the screw top lid, set it down gently, right there, to the right of the sharps box the needle ready for my skin now. This isn't right, I know it isn't, but damn will it feel good. I know it will, I've done this.

Just like always, I find the perfect veins, ghostly skin exposing the intricate blue lines.

Just like always, gently tap the air out.

Just like always, hiss from the slight pain, piercing the skin just right.

Just like always depress the syringe, plunging sweet poison into my blood.

Just like always, hastily dispose of the gleaming stainless steel red with blood, into the red plastic bin. And then lay back and feel the sun set.

The rush, like flying, if only I didn't feel so heavy, I would rise my arms out like wings and fly away.

Relief, I can feel it,

Mouth drying,

…like it's

The best...hangover.

It's…getting…hard…to…… move.

Harder to…think,

Don't want to……move, can't…make…me.

Lazy heart beat,

Hard to………breathe…

Pretty dust dance…-ing

Dark, dark and dark -er dark.

Some -thing break -ing

Stomp -ing

Warm, too warm,

Heavy float –ting

And I know I'm gone, I feel the fading bliss, as inconsistent as the annoying drumming in my chest. This time, I used a little too much. Shadows are moving around me, but they can't do anything.

I…wonder, what is that flashing at the window? A reflection or light? Does it even matter?

No, it doesn't.

What doesn't.

Was I saying something?

I've forgotten.

It probably wasn't important anyway.


A/n: This is the first thing I've written in ages, and quite unlike my usual "style". Is it good or bad in your opinion; too coherent or too incoherent? And what did you think as the reader? I was planning on writing more addictions, but I don't know if it would be interesting to anyone. If this is the type of writing people like, then I'll make note of it and write more like this and "The absolution of unholy water.". If not, I won't make it a priority to mimic this in my writing.