when the high comes down

I. early drug infested memories

In the book of revelations, we are fed stories of the end of humanity. The four horsemen: death, war, pestilence, and famine, unleash destruction and chaos upon the world. Personally, all of that has seems like a load of shit to me, but if it is true, pestilence has already struck, and plagued us with a sickness unlike any other; addiction.
The earliest memories I have reside in a 2 bedroom, blue trailer upon a hill in Corbin, Kentucky. The trailer was run down, and hardly looked livable. There, I lived with my parents Traci, and James, or Odie, as everyone knew him. At the time, I never thought as my childhood as bad, or traumatic in any way. As time has lead on, I have seen through the facade my parents built for me and seen it for what it truly was, a nightmare.
At the ages of 3-4 years old, I was a very imaginative and artistic child. My grandfather was a painter, and I would do everything I could to earn his approval. Most of my time was spent with a piece of paper and crayons, as I scribbled away for hours, trying to create a piece that would grandfather would be proud of. I loved art, and still do to this day, but if I was interested in any other activities, the options were far and few to choose from.  My mother was mostly a stay at home mom and my father was a mechanic. She had a few short lived jobs here and there, but they never lasted long. We didn't have a lot if money, so there was no cable, only old casset tapes I had watched millions of times. Some weeks we didn't even have electricity. Most of my days were spent with me drawing, and my mother right next to me, feeding me word of encouragement relating to the scribbled I was creating. Periodicly, my mother would send me to my room, she never explained why and I wasn't a curious child, so not once did I question her. She was my mother, of course. She was supposed to know what was the best for me
"Brook?" She said. I drug my gaze away from the piece of paper to look at her. "Go to your room, and count to 60." I always did, without protest and without hesitation. I would sit on my bed and count.
"1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi..." Once I got to 60, I would yell it out.
"60! Momma, can I come out now." Sometimes I could, but a lot if times especially when my father was home, I would have to count again. One memory I would never forget, is when she sent me into my room, and asked me to count and I did. But half way through, I felt a bubble in my stomach, and then it growled. I was hungry, so I stopped, and walked out my bedroom and into the hallway, standing right behind the sheet that would soon reveal to me the truth of why so often my parents would send me to my room to count. As I stood behind, I was afraid to push the sheet away. I never disobeyed my mother, but surely she would understand, I was hungry. The sight of what I saw behind the sheet was never one I understood until I was a teen. My mother was sitting on the couch hunched over the table, with a straw in her nose. Across the table, there were several pills, a razor blade, a credit card, and a white line. What I saw in front of me didn't bother me. I was so innocent and oblivious, so I completely disregarded it, and went to the fridge, disheartened by the fact there was very little food in there. My mom shot up, enraged I had came out of my room before counting to 60.
"Why the hell did you come out?" She yelled. My mind couldn't come to a conclusion if what I did wrong.
"I'm sorry, Momma. I'm just hungry." I remember she was never good at hiding emotions, they were always given way by the look on her face. Her face switched from anger, to sympathy, to guilt. She only sighed, then said that if I would go back into my room, and count to 60 again, she would cook me an omelette. Being the obedient child I was, I did, and I told myself I never would come out before counting to 60 again.