Real First Chapter

Ch. 1: Mo(u)rnings-Later that Day

September 2009

I had known it after I found her lying there, ice-cold to the touch. She had passed away in her sleep. She had to have, since she had actually made it to my bed last night, instead of passing out on the floor—or even worse, with Bubba.


Just the thought of that makes my stomach sick. I would never let that nasty fucker touch such a beautiful thing.

I can remember I had called my dad and attempted to tell him what had happened, while simultaneously battling a constant flow of angry tears.

After that, I had gazed down at her lifeless body. My feelings were drowned in a flood of remorse because…

She wasn’t here anymore.

I’m an empathic person—always have been. I can pick up people’s vibrations and can sometimes see their vibrant auras when I close my eyes. But when I had closed them and looked towards her body, I had sensed nothing.

No vibration.

No colors.

Just a dull emptiness.

It’s an eerie feeling when someone is lying right in front of you, but you can’t feel their warm presence.

Her body wasn’t but an empty shell; a cocoon harboring a departed soul.

I had known it was heroin that took her last breath from her. There was nothing in her purse that showed she had taken too much of anything else. I remember her drinking, then popping a pill or two. It was nothing different from what we were used to doing every other night.

Though, before that night, I hadn’t seen her in two weeks. I kept thinking, maybe something had happened to her during those few weeks, that I wasn’t aware of.

I had known I was deep into addiction and I wanted her nowhere near that, so for two weeks, I stayed downstairs in my frozen, flea-infested cave with Bubba.

This had been all his fault. He would’ve been the one to give it to her. I know I didn’t, nor my neighbor, Annie.
Bubba wasn’t just my roommate, he was moreover my drug dealer, which meant, I did nearly everything he wanted so I could have my fix. He’d supply me with dope—heroin/smack—for his share of rent money, while I was still one of his biggest customers. I would spend whatever money my parents gave me for food and emergencies on more dope.

We had a nightly routine that we would never miss or forget: As I would come home from class at the Art Institute of Austin for audio engineering and production, he would come home from whatever it was he did—hustling, he said—then we would blast off into sweet serenity. He would always bring home a couple bars—Xanax—with crack, and plenty of dope.

We would first ingest two Xanax bars each then proceed to smoke all the crack we had. The crack would usually last about an hour at most. It would be enough to almost, but not entirely, cancel out the Xanax that we’d taken, which would take away any anxiety that the crack induced.

I would be on top of the world, feeling just right until, the crack/cocaine feelings wore off.

When you run out of crack, or cocaine, depression begins to set in, next to the awful sensations of paranoia. The blinds were always kept closed, as well as the doors and windows locked, just in case the Feds outside tried to get in with or without a warrant.

Of course, there was never anybody outside watching us. But cocaine—and any other upper—will make you so delusional that you will think the feds were outside in the trees, behind the bushes, watching your every move. Like the ‘Neighborhood Watch’ families have, you become the ‘Watch the Neighborhood.’ Addicts will go completely insane over the pulse-pounding paranoia.

That’s what the Xanax was for, to keep us grounded, but not all the way. Like we were chained at the ankles to prevent us from flying away. So, when we finished all the crack we had—and yes we would always finish it, there’s no such thing as having leftover crack—we’d both inject The Devil’s Juice… a.k.a. heroin.

Heroin is the best drug to use to comedown from other drugs because—

1. There is no comedown from smack.

2. It overpowers any other drug that you take. And…

3. It is simply the best feeling one can ever experience.

It’s not just the drug alone that people fall addicted to, though. It’s the whole process and ritual of cooking the dope, and then shooting it.

People who say they’re afraid of needles are far better off staying that way. But of course, I used to say the same thing.

I fell in love with sticking myself. I loved it so much, I even loved sticking other people if they couldn’t do it, but only if they had done it before. I was, in no way, going to let another person be addicted to this shit. Even when I was dope sick, I’d still inject myself with warm water. I wasn’t just addicted to the smack, but the needle too.

Scanning up, down and around the arm, looking for that thin bulge protruding up from the skin.


And once you find that sweet spot, you hit it with the needle. Once you see the blood jolt up and register into the syringe…

There she blows!

Slam it all home.

Almost immediately, after the whole injection, you feel a ‘pins and needles’ reaction on the top of your head, streaming to the back of your neck. The euphoria is like no other thing you’ve experienced.

The slight vinegar taste crawls up your throat and exhausts through your mouth. This sweet, overwhelming sense of relief hits you and floods your veins like a warm blanket covering your previously cold body. You have not a care in the world now. It wraps you in its arms—better than any mother’s—and protects you from any and every negative thought you could possibly have. In fact, there are no negative thoughts. You are filled with breathtaking bliss and heart-warming harmony. And that is just the rush.

After the rush hits, you’re stuck in a friendly dream-like state known as “nodding-out.” I’ve heard many people describe it as the feeling you get when you wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, knowing you have that little extra time to sleep. I believe it is like that, but more gratifying because you’re high and there is no alarm to wake up to. So you have the pleasure of feeling this way for hours. And like I said before, there is no awful comedown. This is why it is so damn addicting.

When the high wears off, you just want more; however, not in a cocaine or crack-fiending way. You just want to feel that awesome high again. So much, that you will want to do anything for it. Anything to feel that first high again, but you won’t. You will never feel as high as the first time. That’s why they call it “chasing the dragon.”’

Perpetually, chasing that first high. Then, if you don’t end up dead in a decrepit ditch, you’ll discover yourself in jail or rehab. Both, a hell of their own,

now that the dragon chases you.

A little ironic… don’t you think?


I became a young child that day.
A vulnerable boy and a hopeless friend.
It’s as if your imaginary best friend, who came into this world solely for you, has forever left you.
I hope Heaven is true, for there she would be waiting.
Waiting to hold me in her arms again, telling me everything’s okay.
I would be with her one last time. But this time, there would be
No booze;
No drugs;
No addiction;
No pain.
My tragic life would be over, at last.
I’m an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a chronic relapser.
I’ve unintentionally allowed my body to be infiltrated.
Possessed by a demon.
So, in my pathetic world, full of constant pain and confusion, heroin runs the streets.
With her gritty hooks, heroin has controlled me, like a malevolent master pulling the strings wired to his powerless puppet, allowing terrible things to happen.
People often blame weed as being the culprit, gateway drug that opens up into a new world of harder drugs.
For me, weed could be the gate, but alcohol is what opened it. Heroin is what locked it behind me.
Everlastingly locked-up in an atrocious world of addiction.
Forever frozen in a state of absolute agony.
One gun,
one bullet,
would bring the freedom I longingly seek.

However, the universe will not let me, for it wants me to be here, to feel the grief and sorrow that clogs my veins. That is my ultimate punishment: to feel.

It wouldn’t be any ordeal if I died.

I am already dead inside.

Death is what I’m living for.

This is how I feel right now, sitting at my mom’s apartment. My blood-red eyes feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. Puffed-up, they also feel as though they are drooping down, much like the dead petals on a decaying flower.
I had to give a statement to the cops about what had happened the whole night before and this shattered morning. I had told them I had gone to bed early so the only persons to give Brianna anything would have been Bubba or my other neighbor, Annie. After that, my dad dropped me off here. He didn’t come inside. I’m guessing he didn’t want to see my mom. Understandable, after what she had done to him; To our family.
“You okay?” my mom asks, surprising me.
Sitting on the tan, leather couch, facing the TV that I’m not watching, I didn’t see her come up.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
I was not okay though. This has all been my fault. I should not have even let her in the door last night. I shouldn’t have tried to have people over. The only good thing to come out of this is the fact that I’m finally going to get the help I have desperately need.
This heroin stint had gotten so bad so fast. When I relapsed, I almost immediately went back to where I was when I last got sober, tolerance-wise. Weird, how that happens. But I’m getting sober. Thank God, the universe, Mother Nature, whoever.

I just have to get through one more night. There’s only one problem though. To get me through the night, I only have one shot of dope left.

And no syringe.


Leave a Reply