Nikkinsanity
New Member
You don’t wake up one morning and decide to become a drug addict. These things don’t happen over night like they doin the movies. All Axel knows is one day he had hopes, dreams, aspirations – and now – he finds himself in shitty public bathrooms and down dark alleyways, shooting his drug of choice into his veins to get a high that is never as good as the last. He had spent more days in hospitals than he could count or care to take care of and he had thrown out more rehab center brochures than he would like to admit. Each needle stabbed into his vein always starts with the same sentence. “This will be the last one. One final high.” Is what he would tell himself, even if and when he knew that it wasn’t the last. He always knew that deep down. Instead of going and focusing on school, becoming the valedictorian, running track, or getting black out drunk like everyone else – he was skipping classes because he was passed out on the bathroom floor of some place he didn’t recognize and he was near death on most weekends – spending nights in hospitals with breathing tubes jammed down his throat – his stomach pumped, not the first time, and not the last time. He watches the looks of disappointment that flashes over the faces of doctors and nurses when he wakes up. Instead of waking up to rooms filled with balloons and stuffed animals he will wake up to just one person in his room – a person that was always there for him whenever he woke up. The same person that was always covering for him to the doctors and nurses and the person that always got him out of the hospital sooner than he probably should be getting out.
This Friday night was like no other. He wasn’t sure where she was or how he ended up alone. That was whenever he was at his most dangerous – when he was left alone to think. To think about the itch in his skin of withdrawal – to think about how much he was irritated at the fact that he didn’t have his drugs – he was annoyed. His foot bounced and he paced. He hadn’t even scratched the surface of withdrawal before he was out on the streets, hood pulled up above his head and hands tucked deep into his pockets. He sent a few words via text and just like that he was back in his habit and he was walking down the streets busy with night life as he went to meet his dealer and to call it a night. “This has to be the last time you do this before you go broke, make it worth it.” He grumbled to himself as he entered through the side of the door to a night club with music so loud he could feel the base in his chest as he moved through the crowds of dancing people, all holding drinks in their hands as he pushed and shoved. It was like this nearly every day now and it was his daily routine to the point that it made him sick to his stomach to think about how normal it had been.
Once he was back in his apartment, it didn’t take long for the drugs to get jammed up his broken veins, bruises tattering his pale skin all the way down to the fronts of his hands. Each hit was becoming harder to come by due to the mere fact all his veins were busted and ugly – the bruising showing the signs of all that. He sucked in a breath as something immediately felt off and he felt drowsy, moving to the bathroom. That was the last thing he could coherently remember.
His mind was in tune to the things happening around him – both warbly and in slow motion. Beeping, people yelling, the pitter patter of shoes on the floor, a mask over his mouth. He laid there – peaceful – in a world of chaos. In a world where people worked to save his life and to get his breathing back to normal, to get the toxic materials out of his system as quickly as possible. A routine he and the hospital staff have gotten way too used to by now.
Whenever he began to think, he felt an IV jammed into his hand. He felt the itch of withdrawal, the sweat of cold sweats. The shake of withdrawal. He felt something resting in his nose and his stomach had a familiar soreness to it. He heard the steady beep that matched his heart rate and he suddenly knew. He remembered. The last thing he did was hit up – and that only meant one thing. He didn’t want to open his glazed over eyes because he didn’t want it to be real. He didn’t want to see the sights he had grown so used to – so regulated to. He didn’t want to open and see her sitting there or sleeping, worry evident in her face and forehead. He didn’t want anything to do with it. As he continued to keep his eyes closed the stress and irritation lingered. He needed a fix.
One final fix. He didn’t want to end up here again.
At the thought, the illness struck him out of nowhere. The stuff they pump you with to rid the drugs from your bloodstream still lingered. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out but none of it mattered. Before he knew it he had thrown his body into an upright position and began to vomit up whatever remained in his stomach – if anything at all. He had remembered where the hospital staff kept his trash can – readily accessible for him to throw up into. His throat burned, his skin itched, and his eyes landed on her as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – cringing as the IV dug further into the skin that was there – already way too tender.
“You don’t have to stay here you know,” he finally spoke up as he leaned back in his bed and closed hi eyes.
This Friday night was like no other. He wasn’t sure where she was or how he ended up alone. That was whenever he was at his most dangerous – when he was left alone to think. To think about the itch in his skin of withdrawal – to think about how much he was irritated at the fact that he didn’t have his drugs – he was annoyed. His foot bounced and he paced. He hadn’t even scratched the surface of withdrawal before he was out on the streets, hood pulled up above his head and hands tucked deep into his pockets. He sent a few words via text and just like that he was back in his habit and he was walking down the streets busy with night life as he went to meet his dealer and to call it a night. “This has to be the last time you do this before you go broke, make it worth it.” He grumbled to himself as he entered through the side of the door to a night club with music so loud he could feel the base in his chest as he moved through the crowds of dancing people, all holding drinks in their hands as he pushed and shoved. It was like this nearly every day now and it was his daily routine to the point that it made him sick to his stomach to think about how normal it had been.
Once he was back in his apartment, it didn’t take long for the drugs to get jammed up his broken veins, bruises tattering his pale skin all the way down to the fronts of his hands. Each hit was becoming harder to come by due to the mere fact all his veins were busted and ugly – the bruising showing the signs of all that. He sucked in a breath as something immediately felt off and he felt drowsy, moving to the bathroom. That was the last thing he could coherently remember.
His mind was in tune to the things happening around him – both warbly and in slow motion. Beeping, people yelling, the pitter patter of shoes on the floor, a mask over his mouth. He laid there – peaceful – in a world of chaos. In a world where people worked to save his life and to get his breathing back to normal, to get the toxic materials out of his system as quickly as possible. A routine he and the hospital staff have gotten way too used to by now.
Whenever he began to think, he felt an IV jammed into his hand. He felt the itch of withdrawal, the sweat of cold sweats. The shake of withdrawal. He felt something resting in his nose and his stomach had a familiar soreness to it. He heard the steady beep that matched his heart rate and he suddenly knew. He remembered. The last thing he did was hit up – and that only meant one thing. He didn’t want to open his glazed over eyes because he didn’t want it to be real. He didn’t want to see the sights he had grown so used to – so regulated to. He didn’t want to open and see her sitting there or sleeping, worry evident in her face and forehead. He didn’t want anything to do with it. As he continued to keep his eyes closed the stress and irritation lingered. He needed a fix.
One final fix. He didn’t want to end up here again.
At the thought, the illness struck him out of nowhere. The stuff they pump you with to rid the drugs from your bloodstream still lingered. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out but none of it mattered. Before he knew it he had thrown his body into an upright position and began to vomit up whatever remained in his stomach – if anything at all. He had remembered where the hospital staff kept his trash can – readily accessible for him to throw up into. His throat burned, his skin itched, and his eyes landed on her as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – cringing as the IV dug further into the skin that was there – already way too tender.
“You don’t have to stay here you know,” he finally spoke up as he leaned back in his bed and closed hi eyes.
