Scar Tissue [2Doc]

//5//

{TRIGGER WARNING: DRUG USE}

~~~

I look at the broken mug on the floor. The coffee already seeping into the old floorboards. My body suddenly begins to shake slightly, then violently as I bring my hands to my face and scream, tears pouring down like waterfalls. My secret is out.

"FUCK! FUCKING HELL!!" 

I punch the sides of my head and collapse onto the floor screaming and crying. I scream into the floor. "FUCKING HELL MURDOC! FUCK!!" 

This man ruins me. 

I punch the floor until I can feel my heartbeat in my knuckles from the throbbing pain. My knuckles have begun to bleed. They're all scabbed up, the top layer of skin peeling and revealing a thin layer of bloody skin underneath.

My heart is running a million miles per minute as cries of agony escape my body. After a while, my cries begin to silence down until they've become small hiccups of pain. 

I hold myself, trying to control my shaking body. I haven't cried in years. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Crying,, it's annoying. It's such a waste of time.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the cracked ceilings, cobwebs decorating each corner.

My body twitches involuntarily. From the pain speckling my body, but also from the cold. My headache has yet to vanish. If anything, it's gotten worse.

The last remaining tears in my eyes manage to escape, rolling down the sides of my head and puddling in my ear. This feels gross. 

I sit up and aggressively wipe the tears from my face. "Fuck me." I sigh heavily. I don't want to deal with this. I really don't. I need... I need weed. 

I clumsily get up, nearly slipping on the coffee on the floor. I lean against the wall to maintain my balance before trudging along the hallway to get to my room. As I step into the room, I immediately get hit with the stench of sweat. Flashbacks from last night begin to poke at my mind. I shake off the revolting thoughts. 

I rummage through the clothes drawers, digging deep to find my small bag of jazz cabbage. With clammy hands I dump out the small amount of weed I have left onto the bedside table. I can't roll a blunt, but I can probably roll a small joint with this. Yea, it'll have to do. I need something more than that fucking dab pen. I need legitimate, physical weed.  

I search the room for paper to roll the weed with, until finally I find some. Quickly, I get back to the small table. I lay the small square of thin paper on the flat surface and carefully begin to place the weed in the center of the paper. My hands are so shaky. This sucks. I can't let any of this stuff go to waste. 

After the shreds of plant are lined up neatly in a straight row running from one end of the paper to the other, I begin to finally roll it up. I don't have a roach for this, nor glue to seal it. Fuck, I hope this flimsy paper holds up on it's own. I lick the entire end of the paper and try my best to seal it tightly and shut. Saliva will have to do for the glue. 

I snatch up one of the many random lighters I have laying on the floor of my room. Eagerly, I hold the joint up to my mouth and quickly bring the lighter up to it. I bring the small flame to the end of the joint, quickly making it burn. I huff in everything that this small joint has to offer. I cough violently with the first couple of hits, but get accustomed as I near the end. The smoke traveling through my lungs is sharp, it's biting. It's so much stronger than the pen. It's great.