The Fix

I slide the needle into my skin, through a hole I made hours ago in a vain attempt to pump something vile into my veins. The hole never closed, but it no longer bleeds. My skin is cold, dead, numb. Thick black blood seeps from my knuckles where broken glass sliced through. When the heroine didn’t work anymore, I became angry. I miss my fixes, and I fear I will never have them again. I must find something to replace them.

The needles ran dry, and the holes in my arm leaked clear streams. Whatever I pumped in soon trickled out. I hid in fear in the corner, behind the night stand, fearing the oncoming withdrawal, but it never came. I thought I was dead, a loose soul leaving a cold corpse behind, but I was wrong. I have left nothing behind.

My limbs feel clumsy, but there is still strength enough. My friend will come home with his own drugs. All I have to do is wait in the closet and hope he doesn’t notice the odor. When he gets his fix, I can open his veins and get mine. In my lucid moments, I know there will be another fix to find, but mostly, I sit breathless in the closet, waiting for him to return, hoping he doesn’t take too long.

I really need that fix.