Excerpt: Waking Up, After the Storm

When I woke up after the storm, I still felt like shit.  I think it was Tuesday, but I still cannot be sure.  I could have slept until Wednesday, and after I woke up time was not an issue at hand.

I could see the sun shining through the windows.  I felt like I had been through the ringer with that exhausted and awful feeling that comes on the third day without dope.  The third day of the kick is the worst because all you think about is fucking dope.  Physically, you feel a little better and you finally think you might live…but your mind now turns back on to drive you insane with its constant obsession with heroin.

The apartment was silent.  Everyone else must be up at Larry’s.  Either there or they were outside on the porch or balcony.   I got up from the sticky bed, and I began rifling through all my pockets, searching madly for dope.  I always searched madly for hidden or misplaced dope on the third day of a kick.  The frantic search usually turned up empty.

But low and behold on Tuesday August 30th, I found a foil that was still about half full.  I was fucking ecstatic.  I gathered my works and went to the bathroom to get high.

It was dark in there because the power was off, but the sun was bright enough outside that there was light.  I sat, shaking, on the toilet.  The big buckets that had been filled with water were still sitting full, on the floor.  My need had completely taken over as I mechanically took my kit apart, setting up my works on the side of the porcelain sink.  I did not even take note that when I turned the faucet on, water just poured out.  I really had no idea that I was going to walk outside into a different world from the one I had known before I slept.  At that moment, as the needle slid easily in on the first try, gliding into my skin like slicing into warm butter, I had no idea that my life had already been altered permanently.  I was not nervous about what I would find when I finally felt high enough to be able to venture out of the house.

I walked out of the bathroom, barely noticing all the plates and cups scattered about.  The single bed in the living room where Jim’s mother slept was crumpled and disheveled.  I opened the door to the apartment and walked into a dark hallway.   The stairwell was unusually dark, but the sun shone in bright on the second floor coming from the balcony.  This was the first time I was really aware that the power was out.  I would guess it was about ten in the morning at this point.

I walked up the stairs, exhausted from the torture of kicking dope for two days while the storm raged on outside.  I was a little high, which made up for the exhaustion.  There is nothing like that shot when you are really in need.  You have been puking and shivering, and twitching, and turning, and moaning like a dying old man.  Your mind is riddled with insanity because all it can think about is dope.  Dope, dope, fucking dope…Heroin, Oxycontin, Vicodin, the boy, Morphine, Demerol, Fentanyl, china white, the downtown brown, heroin, Percocet, Vicodin, Dilaudid…round and round my thoughts keep running over the same old feet.  A movie reel of needles and pills and powders and pleasure and pain kept rolling through my head like a trailer to a film I had seen in a thousand different places.  The only thing that would stop that train of thoughts, the only thing that could give me any peace was more fucking dope.  That was the ONLY answer.

As I walked up the giant stairs, the hallway seemed to get brighter and brighter.  I emerged onto the balcony.  The sunlight was so blinding to my eyes that had been locked closed from insanity and pain or the weight of the Seroquel that I did not take in the whole scene at first.  I looked at the sky.  It was blue with small hints of grey, and the breeze was still while the clouds were large and puffy.  The sky was calm, and peaceful, and fucking gorgeous.  My eyes squinted from brightness and slight nausea; I looked down from the second floor of the raised old house and realized the streets had morphed into rivers.  I looked on with both disbelief and amazement.

 

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About elizaplayer

I am a rock and roll wild child, who spent too many years living the party lifestyle before the winds and rains of Hurricane Katrina began to wash away all the madness, nearly drowning me in the flood waters. I stayed behind in New Orleans for thirteen dark days, floundering around with the pains of addiction and withdrawal. Five years later, I managed to come out clean on the other side, and now it is time to get back to my roots. I am a writer. I have always been a writer. This is the story of a writer, struggling to make it in the real world. I studied Mass Media Communication with a minor in Journalism. I write anything and everything. This is a sample of my work, and a slice of my mind.
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