My Last Day As A Junkie

Some days I simply roll over, grab my rig, and in almost no time I can be anywhere, from blissful to somewhat functional. I don't even have to reach anymore; I used to keep everything on a shelf above my head, but after that first week of slamming, I couldn't raise my arms high enough to get it. I've been keeping it closer and closer as the angle at which my arms can bend gets smaller. Today, however, is not one of those days.

Today is the day after Christmas, six days after surgery, and 36 hours clean. It is f*cking freezing. I'm covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat; I can't move - I don't want to move, not ever again. Still, every few minutes I toss and turn, stretching and twisting my wasted form in another vain attempt at comfort.

This is the third time in five days that I've tried to quit, and I'm trying desperately not to think about the weight of the spoon in my hands, the old familiar sting and the rush. The all-over warmth and the taste in the back of my throat...ice and amber.

I'm really, really trying, but that's the problem with junk; it's not a 'habit,' it's religion. I worship it. I can always count on Lady H to keep me warm and safe inside myself. So I call Jason, who (of course) doesn't answer, because eight o'clock is far too early for him to be conscious. Plus, I know he pinched some from the bag last night when he thought I wasn't looking and is probably feeling just fine right now, the bastard.

"Hey baby, it's me. I've got some money so I guess just call me when you get this...I love you.