Pagey
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2012
- Messages
- 9,460
From my novel. Any thoughts or feedback would be much appreciated 
A familiar, echoing, numbing rush flowed through my limbs as I sat cross-legged on my bed, a pen edged between my lips, staring pensively out of the window into the dense grey sky. I knew this feeling so well - it was one that had kept me awake at night, that had kept me staring at the ceiling become universe. It was a feeling that had given me a reason to live and would give me a reason to die. But its roots were different this time. No recent track marks sullied my skin, no bills had mysteriously gone missing.
I hadn't touched a single drug since my overdose. It had been about a month and things were starting to calm down a bit on my front. It was hard getting used to a sober life again but fuck, it was simpler. No more sneaking around, no more chucking the phone at the wall in a panicked frenzy of annoyance when the guy didn't pick up and the imminent fear of withdrawals loomed down. Once the first couple of weeks and their accompanying duo of projectile vomiting and suicidal ideation had gone by, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel started to appear. I started speaking to people again. I started going out into the daylight again, not in a lustful rush to obtain synthetic pleasure, but simply just to be out. And recently I'd started writing again as well. My first love. I'd forgotten how nice it was to simply scribble your thoughts down at the end of the day; or the satisfaction you got from creating some god-awful rhyme, but a rhyme nonetheless.
Sure, it was different. There wasn't that immediate smack of orgasmic intensity hitting you unequivocally before you'd even had the time to take the needle out. But there also wasn’t the expectation of your life in return. Writing gave me a satisfaction without any kind of payback expected. It wasn't euphoria; but it didn't land me in the hospital, either.
I would be on the perfect road to recovery were it not for the nagging, pressing, overall just annoying thought of James taking up a constant little corner at the back of my mind. Pathetic as it may sound, I was actually pretty offended that he'd never called or come to see and check up on me after my stay at the hospital. I'd put on quite the independent and nonchalant act, but truth was it had been nice to have someone actually care about what happened to me - and that was with the knowledge of my drug use. When I started using heroin I sort of expected everyone to drop around me. Not drop dead…just, fade away. And they did. Whether it be by my disappearing and selfish hand or by their judgmental incompetence, one by one they left me alone to deal with what they considered to be an overwhelming issue that they wanted no involvement with. It had been nice to have someone who understood and cared regardless. But now that James had just disappeared like everyone else, I felt betrayed and, in a weird way, used. Towards what end I wasn't sure - some kind of self-affirming, grandiose sense of selflessness, maybe. It didn't even matter. Fact was he'd left me alone as well.Except it hurt so much more because he'd actually pretended to give a fuck in the first place.
A familiar, echoing, numbing rush flowed through my limbs as I sat cross-legged on my bed, a pen edged between my lips, staring pensively out of the window into the dense grey sky. I knew this feeling so well - it was one that had kept me awake at night, that had kept me staring at the ceiling become universe. It was a feeling that had given me a reason to live and would give me a reason to die. But its roots were different this time. No recent track marks sullied my skin, no bills had mysteriously gone missing.
I hadn't touched a single drug since my overdose. It had been about a month and things were starting to calm down a bit on my front. It was hard getting used to a sober life again but fuck, it was simpler. No more sneaking around, no more chucking the phone at the wall in a panicked frenzy of annoyance when the guy didn't pick up and the imminent fear of withdrawals loomed down. Once the first couple of weeks and their accompanying duo of projectile vomiting and suicidal ideation had gone by, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel started to appear. I started speaking to people again. I started going out into the daylight again, not in a lustful rush to obtain synthetic pleasure, but simply just to be out. And recently I'd started writing again as well. My first love. I'd forgotten how nice it was to simply scribble your thoughts down at the end of the day; or the satisfaction you got from creating some god-awful rhyme, but a rhyme nonetheless.
Sure, it was different. There wasn't that immediate smack of orgasmic intensity hitting you unequivocally before you'd even had the time to take the needle out. But there also wasn’t the expectation of your life in return. Writing gave me a satisfaction without any kind of payback expected. It wasn't euphoria; but it didn't land me in the hospital, either.
I would be on the perfect road to recovery were it not for the nagging, pressing, overall just annoying thought of James taking up a constant little corner at the back of my mind. Pathetic as it may sound, I was actually pretty offended that he'd never called or come to see and check up on me after my stay at the hospital. I'd put on quite the independent and nonchalant act, but truth was it had been nice to have someone actually care about what happened to me - and that was with the knowledge of my drug use. When I started using heroin I sort of expected everyone to drop around me. Not drop dead…just, fade away. And they did. Whether it be by my disappearing and selfish hand or by their judgmental incompetence, one by one they left me alone to deal with what they considered to be an overwhelming issue that they wanted no involvement with. It had been nice to have someone who understood and cared regardless. But now that James had just disappeared like everyone else, I felt betrayed and, in a weird way, used. Towards what end I wasn't sure - some kind of self-affirming, grandiose sense of selflessness, maybe. It didn't even matter. Fact was he'd left me alone as well.Except it hurt so much more because he'd actually pretended to give a fuck in the first place.