Thoughts and Banter

New Potential Prologue for Memoir

September 2009

          Cigarette smoke fills the yearning void inside me, permeating my lungs with synthetic pleasure.
          A temporary fix to my everlasting struggle against thine own self.
          I fell in love with that fix.
          Any fix.
          Anything to keep me from feeling... me.
Why do I fall in love with things that kill me?
          I suppose it developed from having no love. Even though I have so much love inside me—I wish others could see—but none of it for myself.
How can a kid, who came from such a loving family—such a great childhood—begin to hate himself?
          It just happened one day. All of a sudden, I felt different from everybody else. Then I found my elixir—my fix—which helped make me happy, being myself.
Then, ultimately, it started killing me.
Why did this happen to me? What did I do?  I just want to be like everyone else. To be comfortable living in my own skin. To be liked and loved by everybody else.
          I just want to be happy.

          I blow the smoke out. Watching all the different people around me, I can't help but feel envy. Why can't I be normal, and happy like them?
I hate the way I am.

I'm headed back from one the world's greatest department stores. No, not Wally World, but its eternal crimson nemesis, Target. The red against the blue. Just like gangs are at war with the bloods and crips. There is a war in the white-collar business world, as well. The Wal-Marter's and the Target's. I rep a red flag, simply because I'm in love with the store.
    I come to this place just about every other day, particularly to buy two things that I could easily get at the gas station two blocks down from my apartment. I have a quaint one-bedroom, one-bath located in what is considered central Austin. Perfect for myself. It's a few miles to the nearest Target, but I enjoy the drive.
        I don't know what it is that brings me to this store, other than their pink Vitamin Water and bag of snow-powdered donuts. I know it's not the awful smell of commerce, nor the feeling of fluorescent light shining down on my desert skin. It could be the red taste of the store's famous primary color I always find in the strawberry soda I drink regularly, while browsing.
    Sound weird? That's on account of me being aware of everything around me. I can feel everything I see. Some people may find this familiar. If you've taken acid—where you can taste colors, see smells, etc.—you'll know what I'm talking about. But no, I'm not on acid unfortunately. I haven't taken acid since the Horrible Acid Trip of 2005 where I ended up in the emergency room—I'll get to that later.
          Right now, I'm experiencing what's known as being dope sick. It's merely the first stage of being dope sick—I will also get into later. Basically, I feel sick and I can sense everything in weird ways. Like my senses have been turned up to "11"—in the world of Spinal Tap.
        Sure I'm becoming sicker by the minute, but I'm quite used to it; at least, the first day's sickness. Normally, I'd have a shot for when I wake up, but I either couldn't find it or had done it the night before. Like they say about breakfast, the morning shot is the most important one of the day. It gets you out of bed and keeps you feeling alright while you search for your next one.
          I believe every genuine junky is, or should be used to this first-day sickness. If they're not, then they're probably still in the "amateur" phase. No offense, to those idiots who want to be considered hardcore, genuine junkies. They do exist. I know my fellow junkies would agree with me here. Where my junkies at?!!
    Silence.
    Of course, I hear nothing but crickets. My fellow junkies are either dead, in jail, rehab, or don't care because I'm not holding right now. Meaning, I'm out of dope, hence the sickness. I need to head back to my apartment to see if my asshole roommate came back. He'll fix me right up.
           I knew he would be home. He told me he would be right back when he woke me up. Woken up, with Brianna laying next to me. She is beautiful. And she could sleep as long as I could. I love it. I love her. She's my best friend; my wingman; my partner in crime.
          I left her sleeping in my bed while I took off to get my "breakfast." So, when I came back, I expected her to be awake—it was already going to be noon. But we did have a crazy night, from what I remember.

         Back at my place, I enter my room to find Brianna still sleeping.
          "Geez girl, come on. Time to wake up." I needed her to wake up and leave so when my roommate comes back, I can shoot up and have this sickness taken away.
          "Wake up, Bri—."
          Nothing.
          I find it odd her being in the same position she was in when I left: Lying on the right side of the bed, on her stomach, with her head facing the left. And in the same glitzy clothes she had on the night before. I guess we didn't have sex. That is probably a good thing though. It always seems to  screw things up between friends.
          I wouldn't date her either. If anything were to happen and we broke up, I would be devastated. I'd never risk losing my best friend in the world.
          She is the type of person who would spend hours getting ready whenever we went out. She is the definition of "fabulous," and always made a strong, glamorous entrance, letting everybody at the party or club know she has arrived. I tend to cling to her at these places; she breathes spirit into the party so we always have a raving time together.

          I walk over to the side of the queen-sized bed. She looks like a queen underneath my cotton covers. Though, I am no king. Far from it.
          I reach over with my right arm to shake her left shoulder. As I gently shake her, I whisper her name in her ear.
          Still asleep. I sweetly glide my finger along the side of her face.
          But, it's ice cold.
          My stomach drops; heart stops; everything in the room, in my apartment, in the world, comes to a halt.
          I put the side of my face in front of hers as if she were telling me a secret.
         No breath. Nothing at all.
          My heart comes back to life, pumping at an alarming rate. I take the same hand I used to shake her shoulder and flip her listless body over.
          There was nothing in my stomach, otherwise, I would have thrown it up. I gag and choke on air as I stare at the big purple splotches on the side of her face that she laid on. I grab her cheeks with both hands and shake her softly.
         "Wake up sweetie. Wake up!!" This isn't happening. "Wake up!!!"
          There were two bodies here, but only one heartbeat.

          A flow of blood surged up to my head as I drew myself up off the bathroom floor. I had nearly made myself sick moving her body there from my bed. The dizziness just about spun me back down to the ground. This couldn't be happening. My best friend was lying lifeless on my bathroom floor, with her ashen face, colder than the unkempt linoleum she lay upon.
           I didn't have any dope in my system; I should've been sicker than hell. But the shock must've masked it for me to somehow manage this nightmare.
          I knew in situations like this, time was of the essence. It was a life or death circumstance, unless, of course, she had already passed, which is despairingly likely. My apartment now felt like a revolting realm of misery and malady.
          I had to find her purse to determine what she had ingested the night before. It wasn't going to be hard to find though—her purses tended to be huge, gaudy bags that would likely fit my entire wardrobe. Also, of a brand like Gucci or Louis Vuitton—only the best for her.
          The purse was sitting behind my wine-stained sofa. Easy to find, since it lived in the heart of the living room, or the "Boom-Boom Room," as it tended to be after hours. Inside the cavernous bag, I could easily spot the bright-orange prescription bottle, where she carried her stash. I popped open the pale, child-proof cap with ease to discover broken bits of Xanax.
            Oh God no.
          My stomach sunk to its lowest depths as I could feel the shock start to dissipate. Reality was physically kicking in. I felt a wave of nausea twist my stomach among another wave of vertigo hitting my head. My first thought in unfortunate times like these:
           I need a shot, Now!
           I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how this could've happened. Until, the dusty light bulb in my mind—I thought was broken—ignited once more. It was a nauseating realization. I crouched down at the open toilet as I started to heave. It was more like drowning on air—my stomach hadn't had any solid food to process in days. There were merely a few burning drops of bile. After a minute, I stood up slowly to confront myself in the mirror and scream out loud.
          Snot was running down to my chin, mixing with the salty tears pouring from my damp, ghoulish eyes. I'll never forget that saline taste, nor, the piercing pain. I couldn't tell if it was from the sickness or from the invisible knife twisting slowly into my chest, murdering my soul.

          "That bastard must've given her a taste."
          I've known for a long time, and had even cautioned others, to never, ever mix pills with other drugs, especially this certain, sort of mixture. For a normal person, or even an amateur drug addict—both unlike me—it is invariably a lethal combination when you combine Xanax with her...
the other love of my life—

          ...heroin.