(no subject)
Dear You:
How nice it would be to hear from you once in a while, my so-called "friend". Ever since you've moved it seems you've completely isolated yourself from me, this town, and the "good ol' times". Hey, yeah, remember me? Oh come on, April, you have to remember who I am. Techno-Punk, Satan Bear the evil Care Bear? I swear, you bitch, you'd better remember those. I wish I knew what happend to us, maybe you could give me a ring sometime. Sorry for interuppting your perfect, Tim-less life. I miss you.
Love,
Tim
Reading that outloud gave her shivers down her scrawny spine; the base of her neck collecting sweat as if getting ready to flood the gates, here she comes boys, let'er rip! But then again, those shivers could just be the smack starting to do its job. Every time she's read that letter, shooting up has been the preparing ritual; as if heroin is the perfect remedy to cure the chills.
"Fuck you, asshole," she says to the empty room, devoid of all but a syringe, a small cooker, and a rubber band to help the now poisoned veins bulge then recess back into the crook of her arm. Her most recent injection has been right below the single small tattoo of a wilted rose, now so worn out from the inconsistencies of that awful rubber band tool, it looks as though it's about ready to peel off her arm.
Sitting back down against the bare, white wall, she sighs a deep, almost thoughtful sigh. Of course, it's just the high shes starting to feel, nothing thoughtful about it; because this is the way it always is. Sit down, shoot up, drift off.
In a druggy haze, she gets up to go outside and gets a breath of fresh air. Pretty soon the high will wear off, and it'll be hell for the next few hours. Withdrawl, though, is always her favorite part of the addiction. The constant physical pain and cravings are ways of self-medicating the emotional set backs she feels whenever shes alone, for being chronically depressed is no ride at the theme park.
Retreating back into the false safety and warmth that can only be found inside a junkie's apartment, especially during these cold January winter days, April is starting to feel sick. "Here it comes..." she thinks, with a growing nasuea building in her stomach that'll be ready to explode at any moment. A satisfied smile spreads across her once-beautiful face, torn down and then reconstructed by many nights of sticking a needle into her arm.