China White

Eyes are windows to the soul, so the cliché tells us. What this cliché does not tell us is that eyes can be deceiving; like smoke and mirrors. His eyes, they’re dead. Not dead in a glassy or cloudy or filmy sort of way, the way you imagine a dead person’s eyes to look. These eyes, they saw It and experienced It and every other single important thing in his life ceased to exist. The truth is, he is blind but I am the only one who knows this.

The whites, china white shot through with crooked, red lightening bolts, against the darkest brown. You could stare into his eyes and swear you see an incredible depth, bottomless, eyes you can swim in. This is a fallacy; they are only skin deep. Try to swim in those eyes, and you’ll land a hard fall onto a cracked, concrete top.

I wonder what I look like to him, inside of those windows, smoke and mirrors. A twenty dollar bill, a hypodermic needle, naïve, unknowing. Or maybe it is that I was invisible all along, or merely a person he could cut along the dotted lines, a paper doll to poke out of the dotted creases and folds, to use however he wished. The edges still existing, like a chalk outline on a bloodstained sidewalk.

He thinks he can see me, but he can't. He is blind. I am only his connection, his umbilical cord through which he gets the poison he craves. This will eventually kill him, and I am glad of this. Reality has severed our poisonous relationship, and I’ve crawled out of the dark womb to be severed away, white and pale and shriveled somewhat; but alive and unscathed for the most part. He only lay still and was smothered by the onrushing afterbirth.

I am no longer his connection, the enabler; no more do I stare at him through the end of a needle with unknowing eyes.

Author's Note

any suggestions are helpful. I change bits almost every time I read it. any word substitutions would be helpful.

Reviews

[wicked.wanderer]

This is still in my library.
I still love it.
Just letting you know. :]

[wicked.wanderer]

Au contrare, I believe that putting it into a poetic format would destroy the essence that this has; yes, it seems like you typed it in Notepad on the computer and liked it well enough to post, but placing it into a poem would, I think, be a task too haphazard to complete successfully. I don't have any word substitutions. I really, really liked this; one knows it's meant for drugs, but you also left it open to interpretation, which is difficult for writers to do.
I'm putting this in my Library.

[Charles R. Ciminokii]

This is pretty cool. It really throws out your feeling towards heroin. I can feel the pain and anger and disgust you have for this drug and what it has done to this person.

To be honest, you wrote this with a pretty good beat. If you were to put it in a poem outline, I think it would work a lot better and on a higher level than the small paragraphs and "story" genre. I seem to favor works that have connections to the drug culture. I seem to have a fascination to this idea... I really enjoyed this and I look forward to reading some more of your work. Let me know when you put something else out, especially if it works with the drug idea, I feel that they have more of a deeper root to them...