Boys Don't Cry ✵ MCR

Understanding

     It's been a week since the last time we bought and every individual underneath this godforsaken roof is getting sick with the beginnings of withdrawal. Not a chance we're quitting but our dealer, Ray has been away for a while and our others are just giving us crap that's so cut, it's hardly heroin. Fentanyl, a different type of opioid they use to cut drugs for cheap, makes me angry. I didn't ask to become addicted, I didn't ask for something stronger than heroin, the high is more scary than relieving . You feel every molecule crushed together to compose your body. You feel your blood and your stomach acids, the hairs on your skin alike. Not in a calming way either, you feel as if you're on the verge of exploding. Too much is too much. I know seven people who have died from a fentanyl overdose. They cut heroin with it due to how inexpensive it is. In my mind, it would be more economical to merely not cut it, they're killing off their customers. That's bad business.
My skin is tightening around my bones like a tourniquet, heat is radiating off my flesh as if one of the little tea candles we light to boil the skag. It's unbearable. Frank, the smallest boy in this house is curled in a ball in the back corner. He's rocking back and forth, clawing at his exposed shins. Back and forth, back and forth, in a puddle of sludge from the holes in the ceiling and his own urine, muttering in a most pathetic manner,

"Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts..."

The room is overflowing with moans, whimpers and these mutters. Pain is not silent.

"Oh no, please no!"

"It's a mess, it's a mess, why are we in this mess?"

"Where's Ray? Ray, get Ray."

"Make it go, make it go!"

"Stop hurt, no, stop!"

We're like infants, or toddlers when their favourite toy is taken away. Currently there's three of us wallowing in our disgusting selves, Lindsey, the oldest out of the four left for work hours ago. Despite it being Saturday, her manager is all about "Mondays off!" She works in a record store in the west side, she gets paid well and we get free vinyls. We live in the lower east of Vancouver, junkies, dealers, gangs, and crime, that's us. Lindsey has to cover up her arms for work, the west is rich hipsters, businessmen and old money. The social conduct is very different in that area. See, no one in the east side actually wants to be here, but you can't exactly go anywhere else, too expensive and too many police. Each of us have a job, living in this city, you have to. The rent is unbelievable for the area we're in, it's taxes upon taxes, upon taxes. There's all the taxes you can imagine, including environmental, although that's one I don't mind. Ever since I learned how skag is made, I have taken upon a massive amount of guilt. There are so many forests illegally clear cut in China to make room for the poppy fields. When the government finds out, they dust it with whatever the hell 'dust' is. All I know is that it kills the entire poppy field, the soil, the surrounding areas and it poisons the animals. The whole thing is bad from start to finish. In a pamphlet I read about fentanyl, before I got into said drug, read that "The excretion of the drug emits toxic waste into waterways and soil, thus, destroying important bacteria and severely disrupting ecosystems." Too wordy for my taste, but they get their point across. So yeah, I'm ok with paying environmental tax.