Junkie-dexterous
I glanced around the park, seeking a public restroom to ply my doper trade. The shaking started, my body’s own alarm system, telling me I had but seconds to spare.
I jogged up the palm tree lined path, clutching the bindle and my kit in one hand while loosening the belt around my waist with the other.
Yep, I’m junkie-dexterous.
Are you?
By the entrance to the park, next to a playground filled with tots and their Ritalin popping mothers, stood a rest area bathroom. I pushed my way inside, gagging at the stench of rotted sewage. Years of overflowing shit-water stained the concrete, turning it a muddy brown. Most of the plumbing and fixtures had been stripped away, pilfered by baseheads in need of quick cash or improvised crackpipes.
Two stalls, both without doors, faced the each other. Fecal matter, wadded paper, and desperation clung to the toilet seats. I closed my eyes, and wondered how desperate I’d become. There had to be a point where I said no more. That I refused to live this fucked-up existence. My guts cramped, forcing me to admit the terrible truth. I had a long way yet to go.
Junkie-bitious
I turned the faucet, but no water poured from it. Not a single drip. Fuck. My eyes fell on one of the toilet, and its rust-colored water. I glanced at the syringe in my hand, and back at the porcelain bowl.
Fuck.
Bending over the stained toilet, I drew rusty water into my needle while mouthing ‘what the fuck am I doing’ like a mantra. The plastic turned cold as water filled the chamber mixing with my dried blood. A rush of heat licked up my spine and into my brain. My heart sped up, and my breathing quickened.
I mixed the toilet water and a good-sized hit, cooked it up with a precision only the finest of chefs ever accomplished, and drew the bitter nectar back into my spike.
Junkie-licious.
I tied my arm with my belt, and readied myself for a foray into corroded vein territory. My veins are both my salvation and my worst enemy. At the height of my habit, it took me over an hour to find a usable vein. Now, I can usually hit after fifteen minutes of digging. I pressed the needle to my flesh, tapping my finger against a fragile blue line running on the inside of my forearm.
“Mommy,” a small voice from the doorway said. “What’s that man doing?”
I froze. My eyes met the eyes of a horrified mother. She scooped up the little boy and backed up a step. “Don’t hurt us,” she whispered. “Please. I’ll give you money.”
“I...” I dropped the needle. It fell onto the shit-coated floor, and rolled away. I raised my hands. “I don’t want your money.” Even though a part of me did. “I’m not going to hurt you. Take your kid and go.”
Tears leaked from the mother’s eyes, and the child in her arms began to cry. She kissed his forehead. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s right here.”
I swallowed. A fleeting memory of my own mother circled my mind. “Go. Now.”
She nodded, and ran from the restroom, the child cupped safely in her arms.
I closed my eyes, shame burning deep inside me. My stomach cramped, and I puked, splattering the concrete floor with bile and blood. Tears ran down my cheeks.
With grim determination, I dropped to my knees, and scourged the vomit-stained floor for the syringe.
From The Junkie Tales Collection ~ Buy your copy at amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com
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