“The deeper you stick it in your vein, the deeper the thoughts there’s no more pain, I’m in heaven, I’m a god, I’m everywhere, I feel so hot, It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive, If you don’t have it you’re on the other side, I’m not an addict, Maybe that’s a lie…” –“Not an Addict” by K’s Choice
On the Edge
Mickey’s eyes slowly opened as the evening sun peered in the hotel window. Dust fogged the beams of sunlight streaming through the window. Ugh, he thought, what happened? It was nearing 6:30pm and the room was worse than a mess. Food was everywhere; garbage littered the floor and table tops, and clothes, so many clothes. He didn’t even know whose clothes they were. A ragged hoodie he recognized as his own was sticking out from under a coffee table. It was chilly in the room, and smelled of sex, garbage, and electricity. Mickey carefully waded through the mess to get his hoodie. As he pulled it off the floor, he noticed a clump of disheveled, bleached, yellow-blonde hair, and pale scar-pocked skin. It took Mickey a minute, but he soon realized it was just Sandi. He shrugged and figured they must have binged out of their minds last night, “I mean, Sandi is naked…,” he thought.
He wandered into the bathroom; he went straight to the needle-littered sink. There were his instruments; his beloved tools. He was an artist with them, at least in his own mind; a magician who held the secret to euphoric oblivion. He took the small black rocks out of his hoodie pocket and placed the smallest piece in his bent and tarnished tablespoon. He added a bit of water and pulled out his lighter. As he dissolved his self-destructive treat, he pulled the back of his pants down. He would have to shoot up there; he blew out the veins in his arms over the past few months. They retreated far beneath his skin so Mickey couldn’t poison them anymore. He filled his syringe with his now-liquid heroin. It was black tar, his favorite. As he shot it up, he realized he would need some cocaine to balance this; he didn’t want to crash. Sandi probably has some.
“Hey Sandi,” he said while kicking her in the ribs, “get up! It’s time to go…”
“Go away…” she moaned. He kicked her again.
“Jeeze, Mick!” she yelled as threw a half full coffee mug, the closest thing to her, right for Mickey’s head.
“You missed! HA!” he taunted as the mug shattered on the wall behind him, and brown streaked oozed down the wall.
Sandi crawled out from under the coffee table. She was quite a sight; naked except for one thigh high fishnet stocking, red lipstick smeared over her mouth and cheeks, with popcorn, chips, and garbage stuck to her skin and in her rat’s nest hair. Mickey smirked and rolled his eyes at her, though he was thinking, God, I love this girl. She pulled the stocking off from the toe, and found a Ramones shirt in the pile of garbage and pulled it over her head. Noticing her trouble finding a bottom, Mickey pulled a wrinkled pair of his Dickies shorts out of the corner of the couch and tossed them to her. She pulled them over her pasty legs and tightened the belt. They were off to score.
It was dark and smoky as a local band roared into the mic on stage. Mickey and Sandi split up, as was their custom, to see who could find the newest, purest stuff available. A shifty looking guy approached Sandi and tried to flirt with her. After having no success, he made her an offer.
“I’ve got the best stuff around, all yours if ya gimme one night.” Sandi had to think about that one. She pursed her lips and replied.
“Gimme a sec, I’ll get back to ya…” She wandered off to find Mickey. She spotted him across the smoky room, his long shaggy black hair stuck out all over the place, while his lanky frame gave him a skeletal quality. She shoved her way through the crowd to get to him. It was like wading up current in a sea of bodies. She leaned in and told Mickey what the guy had proposed, and hell burned in Mickey’s eyes.
“He said what?!”
“Chill! I didn’t think it was that bad of an idea…” Sandi said.
“Fine, do whatever the hell you want!” barked Mickey.
He stood in the corner of the room closest to the stage, hoping the noise would block out the pounding of his heart and droning of his thoughts. He watched as Sandi ran off with the skanky guy. She reappeared twenty minutes later, happily waving a baggy in Mickey’s face. He scowled, grabbed the bag and Sandi’s arm, and pulled her through the crowd as they ventured back to the dank hotel room.
Mickey grabbed the biggest rock out of the baggy and covered it with water in a small glass. Hastily he pulled out his lighter and as it was heating the glass, he slammed the bathroom door and sank against it. How could she do that to me?! I love her more than anything. How could she? How?! She can’t love me… She doesn’t love me! He sobbed to himself while he dissolved his cure-all. The amount was enough for two syringes that he shot into his neck. He was almost instantly calmed and drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of holding Sandi, and never woke up.