325mg

The smoke from the cigarette keeps me going but the needle's sting is why I wake up. I wasn't always using heroin but now that I am I can't seem to stop. Happiness in a syringe is what I've needed all along. I get down and as soon as I tie off, I know that everything is going to be better.

My usual supplier was recently arrested and that got me down. I used what was left of what he gave me to bring me up and it did for about a week. After I ran out, I started to become desperate. I needed more and I couldn't help getting down. I didn't have any more and I needed to find more. Cigarettes just weren't doing the trick anymore.

On the streets, I found a new dealer who has a reputation for having the best stuff out there. I couldn't care any less if he kept children in his basement. If he had what I needed, that was good enough for me.

I bought some of his product with the last of my cash. I rushed home and immediately shot some up. The ecstasy of the pain from the needle going into my skin finally released me from the anxiety of not having that 325 milligrams of happiness in a needle. I started to collapse under my own weight but I didn't care so I let myself fall into my bed, swimming in the pleasure that's rushing through my head.

Closing my eyes, I can only see a warm yellow light that consumes all of the pain and anxiety. All the pain and struggle is eaten up and burned with an intense fire that crackles like the breaking of bad habits.The ash falls away into a place where there is no returning from and where no freedom can be had. The light fades from yellow to white and grows brighter and brighter until it wakes me up, leaving me with a ringing like sirens in my ears, the bedroom lights on, and an empty needle in my hand.

Did I just overdose and survive? I stumble to the bathroom mirror and stare at the strange face looking back at me. This face wasn't the happy face that graced the pictures above my parents fireplace. These weren't the eyes that glowed with joy at every birthday party in the backyard, surrounded by friends. This face was thin and skeletal, weak and pale, worn out and tired from all of the sleepless nights dreaming of the next hit. Is this what I've become? A junkie with nothing except the needle in my arm?

I took the needle, still in my hand, and I through it right at the mirror out of fear, shattering the frightened reflection. I run out of the bathroom and the bedroom lights falling down on me like brilliant rain that illuminates my vision and casts away the clouds in my mind. I shake out the remaining confusion and instead of calling an ambulance or paramedic, I pick up the phone and call my mother, whom I haven't spoken to in 4 years, 3 months, and 17 days.

Author's Note

Any and all feedback is welcome and encouraged.