Empty Nights

    I stared at the dirt splattered ceiling while exhaling a cold, shaky breath - cigarette smoke floating effortlessly in the air before staining the ceiling. Sitting up, I look at the smoke in a mix of anguish and jealous. Why couldn't I move as freely as that? My trembling hands take a lighter (a famous weapon in my self destructive armoury) and spark it alight, the bright orange flame dancing tauntingly before my eyes. Smoke started to pour down my throat and into my lungs as I breathed in, relief filling my worn out body. Damn I needed this. As the cigarette hung from my bloody and chapped lips, I got up off the beaten up mattress I called a bed. There were holes all over it - probably from my excessive clawing at night - alongside dark blood stains that seemed to breed everytime I looked at them, their population slowly becoming out of control. I'd like to pretend that I had no idea where they came from and that they may have occurred from my careless thrashing about at night but that's not the case. It has never been the case.

    The thin sheets that shyly hug my bed wrapped themselves around my boney, ashen ankles as I slunk to my office chair. I don't know how they could be classed as sheets; they were more tattered rags that I either used for little warmth or cleaning up blood - both uses that became a luxury in very short time. The clothes I was wearing didn't do much help either. My loose shorts barely clung to my bruised hips as the flimsy fabric let the crisp, cold winter air through them, kissing my legs as it came in contact with my body. The coldness stung the mix of purple and silver scars on my body. My chest was bare, exposed to the harsh elements. With every movement I made, my ribs rippled though my almost translucent skin, seeming to almost split it. The same grotesque thinness was present for my whole body - skeletal fame practically all that was left of me. Finishing the cigarette, I sighed heavily. It was too much. I had to.

   Cautiously and silently, I crept downstairs. The only people who lived with me were passed out, alcohol currently speeding around their blood stream. Above the cabinet, out of the way of anyone else, a pill bottle lay. It had never been opened. Never been touched. The surface covered in dust like a lost and forgotten artifact. In fact it wasn't forgotten; it had been on my mind since last month. Never ever in my life have I needed anything more than I did with those. My shaking, scarred fingers wrapped themselves around the bottle - a sweet warm feeling filling my entire body. Scurrying quickly up the steps, missing two at a time, I speed into my room. The wallpaper had peeled off the wall, facing away from my grimy mattress. With a small "thud", I dropped to the mattress and smiled, fingers still wrapped tightly around the bottle. My joy was gonna come straight from a glass bottle.

   Self medicating. That's what my life had came through. The small pills had slithered straight down my throat, the chemicals starting to numb my brain. Everything around me became a blur, the only thing I could focus on in this empty night was the smoke... My mind was finally as free as it...