"Demons" Imagine Dragons.
Look into my eyes,
It's where my demons hide,
It's were my demons hide.
Don't get to close,
It's dark inside,
It's where my demons hide,
It's were my demons hide.
Your eyes they shine so bright,
I wanna save that light,
I CAN'T ESCAPE THIS NOW,
UNLESS YOU SHOW ME HOW!
He sat alone in his dimly-lit bedroom. The door shut, closing him off from the world. He was in darkness, with only a small candle placed carefully on the foot of his bed. Large shadows were scattered across the wall, giving the room an eerie countenance. The light flickered across the folds of his blue bedspread. He sat with his legs crossed, hunched over and clutching a small vial. The light bounced across the crown of his head, to his slender arms, and down to the kneecaps of his crossed legs.
His trembling hands held a vial of a drug called Dilaudid. He sat there in silence staring at the small vial. He tilted his head in such a way were his messy brown hair covered his dark chocolate eyes. When did he become like this?
The telephone rang. However, he was not even fazed by the rings filling up the silent room. He merely ignored it until the answering machine picked up.
"Hey it's me. You have seemed to not be yourself lately. I was wondering if everything was alright with you because of what happened..." There was a beep and the message ended.
He did not recognize the voice on the machine. But he would not call back, whoever it was would hear the signs. The signs of his new found drug addiction. He could not talk straight and often went back on what he was saying. If he could hear the signs so could someone else, and they would take it away from him. But they could not, he needed it. Without it he could not function. He just wanted to cry out for help, but no one would hear. Hell! Nobody would even care.
He was a smart man, and he was past lying to himself on this one. He can't stop now; he relies on the Dilaudid like oxygen to get him through the day. He cannot afford to be without it, he tought while tying a tourniquet around his upper arm reaching for the syringe. Suctioning in the liquid and tap-press, before looking to his vein. He hardly has to think about what he is doing anymore. That should probably be alarming, but it is not...at least to him. It is not weakness to push it in and depress the plunger; it is survival. But deep inside he knew that it was more of a death certificate.
He is floating numb this time, and he is so grateful. He use to take it to remember, but now he is taking it to forget.
