Sicker Than Yesterday

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Early entrance into my life.

Submitted: January 18, 2016

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Submitted: January 18, 2016

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When I was a child I did not think I would become a part of a junkie's dream, where real clouds are crack and methamphetamine smoke, where needles are used for injecting liquid euphoria that turns veins brown rather rather than heal the body. Well, in my mind I am convalescing in an unorthodox way—a disappearing act taking me away from myself.

“We've got to get the fuck out of here,” he says. It seems like I hear him say the same thing every day. Getting the fuck out of here is our mantra for living a wrecked existence.

I wipe the blood off of my arm and stash the needle into a hole in my suede purse before driving off into the Baltimore night.

“Let's go to the park and do a little more and then walk around,” I suggest. My sweaty hands are gripping the steering-wheel. Like clockwork, I check the rear-view mirror to see if any car is following us. Thank God, one of the cars didn't make a turn when I did.

We do end up going to the park. I lie down with him underneath a huddle of leafless trees and a black glassy sky. He lays his head on my concave stomach and strokes my right thigh, my tights slightly shielding the ability to feel all of his touch. He grabs his overstuffed backpack sitting next to me and pulls out what I was waiting for. More is what we want. More is our addiction.

Our needles and spoons and crystals are sprawled across the damp grass. The preparation is always exciting, but it comes with an uneasy weight of impatience. My stomach flutters and my entire body aches to feel the poison drown my body right at that very instant.

“Can you hit me this time?” I ask.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

I sometimes don't do the administration on my own because when someone I ache for sends the pleasure into me, I feel closer to him. He is making love to me in a different way, one where I can drift outside of myself but feel whole. He also would make a skilled phlebotomist. The punctures never bruised my arms.

“Shablackity!” he exclaims once the needle connects to my vein right away.

“Shablackity,” I repeat, my voice staccato and ears ringing. My heart becomes heavy with dense beats. I get the urge to talk a mile a minute, but no words slip out of my mouth. Instead I gaze straight ahead and pray that this rush does not come down. It always fades, even though the side effects last for hours. It's the first couple of minutes after that initial blast that you want on repeat.

“Sleep in the stars,” he says.


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