The Demon Inside Me

As I shot my first injection of bath salts, fear turned into something else. It was exciting, it was scary. My whole life has been one big high. My mother died when I was 15 and that's when I spiraled. It started with marijuana to take the edge off; just a blunt here and there to keep me from feeling too much. When that stopped working I moved to alcohol. It worked until I got thrown in jail for 3 days for drunk driving. Three days I sat by myself, not able to do anything to help numb the emptiness. When I got out, the first thing I did was contacted my drug dealer. He had just gotten some acid that he'd wanted me to try, and I was sober and in pain so I didn't hesitate to hail a taxi to his block. The following week I found out I was pregnant. The father saw nothing more in me than a customer.So, I looked to my family for help. I had told them that I'd get help; that I'd sober up for my son. I would make my mom proud.
After my pregnancy I turned again to marijuana. I told myself it was just for relief; being a mom isn't easy. My family would take my son for a few hours sometimes to spend time with him. Those were when I found my moments to smoke a blunt. A few eyedrops in my eyes before they came back and they would never suspect. Of course, once an addict, always an addict. I started using my free moments to dig up old habits. I started snorting cocaine after my son's first birthday.  My sister had taken him for the night so I could clean up the house and get some down time. The cocaine gave me the adrenaline that I hadn't felt in a long time. It gave me the adrenaline that I had found myself craving as the year passed. I felt energized. Refreshed. I felt like myself. Nevermind that my mom wouldn't be proud of me; she wasn't here. It became more frequent. I was always calmed down before he got home.
A few months after my son's second birthday party, my dealer texted me about a new batch of goods. A new batch of poison. I didn't hesitate to reply that my son was with my father, so I could pick them up within the hour. By the time I had got back to the house, my father would have been pulling in the drive any minute. I tucked my new habit under the couch cushion and put on a movie while I waited for my son to come home.
They finally arrived 15 minutes later. My son had played pretty hard all day so he would pass out for a nap in about an hour. I thanked my dad as he walked out the door, turning back only to tell me how proud he was that I was sober. Only to tell me that he was proud of the lie I had deceived him with. An hour later, I laid my son down for a brief nap and began the journey to a new addiction.
As he laid fast asleep in the other room. I shot up, thinking that I was so sure I would come down from my high before he woke up. It was nothing at first. I sat waiting for it to kick in. It was all at once. An adrenaline rush and a hint of excitement as I started to feel different. As I started to feel relaxed. It was euphoric.
Euphoria turned into confusion as the demon stepped out of the shadows and into my line of vision. Confusion turned into fear as I realized he was here to hurt me. To hurt my baby. I didn't stop and realize that my son had woken up. When my voice shifted into a blood curdling scream I didn't hear him say "Mommy!". I didn't hear his cries as I fought off the demon so it may never hurt me. So it may never again scare me. I was so proud.
When I came down from my high, I was in my bedroom. I don't recall how but I remember I was glad. I didn't hear my little boy up and about. He was still asleep, I remember thinking. So when I stepped out of the comfort of my bedroom and into the hallway, the smears of red upon the wall gave me a startle. I don't remember having red paint for my baby to get into. My heart started beating faster. When I took that last step out of the hallway, my scream wasn't out of fear. This time my scream was for my baby laying on the carpet. Lifeless. Alone. I ran to him and cried. My baby boy was gone and my first thought wasn't how I was paying for funeral expenses. My first thought wasn't how I was going to have to tell everyone in his life that he had perished. My first thought was that of a true drug addict. My first thought was that I didn't want to go to jail.
It was then that I had noticed the blood on my hands. I knew what I had to do. I washed my hands, grabbed a pair of garden gloves and began the process of burying my happiness. I ran through the story in my head as I carried my son to the backyard. Digging the hole, I remembered how full of joy he always was. Placing his cold body in the ground, I remember how he'll never get a chance to be that happy again. I thought about how I'll never again get a chance to see my baby boy smile. Never again get to hear him laugh. Tears streaming down my face, I went inside and threw the dirty gloves on the table next to some packets of flower seeds. I changed into an outfit I had wore just the previous day. Before I could rethink my decision, I called the police.
It only took them fifteen minutes to reach my house. I had broken a living room window before they got here, swung open the door to make it look like it was left open in a hurry. It was a break in. I can't hear anything because my TV was on. They took my baby boy.
The next hour was spent giving falsified information about when I fell asleep and when I noticed my little boy was missing. The handprints on the wall from my son the day before that I never got a chance to paint over.  The detective working my case sympathized with me. He lost wife and son in a car accident last year. He told me he'd find my son. I believed it.
I stayed sober for the days to follow. I couldn't afford to slip up. I called the detective everyday, and everyday he told me he had found a new lead. Everyday I knew he was only half wrong. I cried everyday as I looked out into the patch of grass that would never grow back the same.
The 6th day was when I cracked. I couldn't take it. The guilt, the crying, the deceiving. It all became too much. That night was the night I shot my second injection of bath salts. That night was the night I found my baby boy.
I didn't think about it. I didn't want to. I dug up the patch of grass where flowers were supposedly to bloom next spring. I dug up my decaying baby boy; he was still the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen. I held him in my arms as the sky rained down on me, washing the dirt from his face. I held him, crying tears of joy because I finally got to have my baby back. I was found rocking a corpse in my backyard by the detective who sympathized with me. The detective who now couldn't look at me without vomiting. That's the night I was taken away. Away from my home. Away from my baby. The detective radioed for backup and had me in handcuffs before they even radioed back.
    I was placed in a psychiatric ward until my mind rotted away. Day after day, I sat in a tiny padded room with nothing to do except think. Think about my baby boy who's funeral I wasn't allowed to attend. Think about the way my own family looked at me during my trial where my lawyer pleaded insanity. Day after day my mind rotted away. Slowly but surely, I went with it.