I need another hit like the devil needs souls. I feel it burnin’ deep inside me. Screamin’ like a spoilt child. My body shakin’, kist in this new lucid state. My mind goin’ crazy, thoughts whirrin’ round my head, inside my skull, shoutin’ at me to take some more. My legs ache from pacin’ up and down, I feel like I’ve walked a thousand miles in the last day. My eyes are heavy from a lack of sleep catchin’ up on me, unable to rest my mind long enough to let the sandman do his job. The first twenty-four hours they said would be the hardest, my arse they are. It’s been forty-two hours and twelve minutes and I feel as though my body is about to explode, I’ve never wanted it so bad. I never thought for a minute that I’d become this addicted to the smooth white powder, but stridin’ up and down on this lino floor I guess I must be. Every muscle in my body is yearnin’ for it.lasers-zap-cocaine-660

It’s not such a big deal is it?

I mean it’s not much different to a workin’ mother needin’ her mornin’ cup of coffee and one every two hours after to keep her goin’ through the day, is it? Nah course it isn’t. So why am I here? Why is my body yellin’ and shakin’ and my head poundin’ for it? Why am I longin’ to have that thin white line in front of me, my finger poised over my nose? Surely a coffee addict feels the same when they don’t get a hit, so why aren’t they in here? Why aren’t they made to sit in a circle and identify themselves, ‘Hello I’m Karen Walker I am a coffeeholic’ and everybody claps.

It’s all bullshit that’s what it is.

No one will ever understand why I did it, why I started it in the first place, why I’m now addicted to it. Yes I spent my teens smokin’ dope and takin’ acid to have a good time but all teens do it don’t they? So what I sniff a little crack now and again. Ok maybe a little more than that but it’s not like I’m injectin’ heroine, I’m not actually killin’ myself any more than smokin’ a fag. That’s what irritates me.

It makes me feel so alive, my brain actually works, and it all makes sense. The voices inside that are now screamin’ to be let out are silent. What is so wrong with puttin’ the voices to rest, to stop myself failin’ and make somethin’ of my self.

Why is my body stll in pain, cold pain that runs through my veins. Why won’t the voices in my head just SHUT UP! I can’t take this anymore. Me doing cocaine is no different from a fat girl on a diet chowin’ down on a full fat double choc chip muffin, it’s a release, it’s enjoyment. The feel of it as it enters my blood stream is  like nothin’ on earth, it’s like warm coffee on a cold day runnin’ through your body.

Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

I slam my fist into the white washed walls, puncturin’ the plaster, I feel a sense of release and laugh. Is this what my life has come down to? Bein’ locked in a room with only a bed and a bog? What happened to comfortable livin’? I’ll tell you what rehab is nothin’ like they make it out to be on TV. Although I was told I would be moved after the incubation period. What a pile of fuckin’ crap, incubation period? What’s that suppose to even mean? Lock you in a white room with nothin’? Is that what they do to drive you insane? ‘Cause I sure feel like I’m goin’ insane. My mind is restless I feel like I’m on a never-ending rollercoaster at a hundred miles an hour.

I want out. Out of this skin. Out of this life. I want out of it all.

But it’s all her fault. She drove me to it, whinin’ at me, drivin’ me to do better, to make the best of my life. What the fuck does she know?

Categories: Fiction, Openings, Prose | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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