Punks Not Dead

Voodoo Child

After eating and cleaning myself up, Sid came go sit down next to me. He looked awful, his hair stuck up every which way and his eyes were blood shot and glassy.

"I need...I need a fix. I don't know what to do, Maxi. I don't want to end up dead."

I was very shocked. I hadn't heard Sid say anything emotional like that in a long time. Tears slowly brimmed his eyes; I feared they would pour down onto his face. I took into my arms, and we cried together. Silently.

If I would ever mention this to someone, Sid would most probably deny it. Had I not been there myself, I would also deny it. Sid wasn't known for crying.

After a while, we decided to go to a detoxification hospital. Sid needed methadone if he was going to get through this. The drive there was extremely silent. When we got out of the car, Sid wrapped his arm around me and held me for a long time.

When we walked through the doors, the receptionist gave us a dirty look. I began talking to her and asking her about what I should do with Sid's problem and the treatments they had to offer. She clearly didn't care much and brushed us off as quickly as she could. She gave me some methadone and took some of Sid's information, before shooing us out.

We had to come back once a day or two. Sid would probably start going through heavy withdrawal.

When we got home, Sid sulked in his room for a while. I didn't feel like waiting around on him, so I wrote a note telling him I was leaving and decided to take a walk in town...