Myocardium

Part 3

A few of my coworkers have gathered in the locker rooms already when I enter the brightly lit building through the back entrance. The second Jolly catches sight of me, she comes rushing over as if she's an excited little puppy reuniting with its owner, hugging me tightly. 

Whatever she's on tonight, it makes her seem as bubbly and happy as ever. If it weren't for the drugs, the entire atmosphere in this very room would be entirely different. Gently, I pat her back and mumble my greeting towards her, both empathetic and slightly confused.

After I've cleaned and prepared myself as per usual, I walk out of the shower, clothes in hand, not wearing any. I've stopped feeling embarrassment when it comes to being nude a long time ago, it's not like it's of any use for me. The people who want to see my body get so see every part of it anyway, whether I like it or not. Shame would only be in my way when I know the only choice I ever is expose myself to the people who demand it. 

Rarely, and only in certain situations, I still feel genuine embarrassment, everything else just makes me feel uncomfortable and disgusted. When walking past her, Crystal stops me and places a tiny bottle of liquid into my hand, smiling compassionately as she wraps her hand around my now closed fist. 

"You look like you need it, hun." 

As I feel the bottle between my fingers, I nod and smile back. "Thanks."

The sealed syringes in my emergency bag come in handy in situations like this. I always make sure to keep them sterile and break them after use, so no other person could even be tempted to reuse them. My well-chosen outfit makes me look rather feminine tonight, and probably younger than I am. Oh, how I wish I could say that the clients aren't into that. 

Unfortunately, plenty of them are. If I didn't know the grim reality of their preferences, I would not be dressing and behaving the way I am. But in this sort of business, whatever makes money is the way to go. The pastel-blue leather choker I strap around my upper arm and tighten until the vein in the crook of my elbow is perfectly visible also matches my shorts perfectly.

With my focus entirely on the task at hand, I make sure there's no air bubbles and slowly push the needle into my vein after sucking up some of the deep brown, black-ish liquid. It doesn't take long until the diamorphine I inject into my bloodstream begins taking effect. Once it does, I let out a relieved sigh, it feels so pleasant how the rush kicks in and makes me feel all numb, high and happy. 

For a moment or two, I remain in the same exact position, with my head leaned against the wall behind me and the syringe still stuck in my arm, but when I remove the needle from my skin and strap the choker around my neck, I break the syringe in half and dispose of it, letting the poison take over me fully.

"Man, he's flyyyyyyying," Jacky mumbles and I hear nothing but chuckles from the others. That's the worst part of it all. They all watch me, a 20-year-old college kid, shoot heroin into his veins without batting an eye. Why? Because for them, this is normal. It's their reality. The only way they know. They've probably done the same or even worse when they were my age. Then again, how much worse can it get from this point on? The medicine in my blood makes me feel good, lets my mind be at peace. At least for the moment, it does.

Quickly, I begin to feel better and better without the euphoria seeming to be anywhere near done kicking in. I know it'll be a good night, nothing can bring me down now. The nights I spend on heroin are usually my better ones, the ones where I feel at least remotely good about myself.

The mornings after feel a thousand times worse, though. But this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make, at least tonight. When I've rechecked myself in the mirror, I give my colleagues a satisfied grin and leave the room, filled with an overwhelming rush of ecstasy.