Demons Don't Feel Love

Chapter one: My darkest days

There comes a time when life– and by life I mean everything in it; from you, to your friends, your entire situation– there comes a time when it can all spiral Downhill. This crashing, hopeless event, or multiple events, can happen at any given time.

In my case, I was fourteen when I watched the last of my Bridges burn down before me. I'm gonna break it down clean and simple, for you'll soon find that my life has a whole lot more complexity than my beginnings.

I came into this world as the should-have-been-aborted daughter of an agoraphobic cocaine addict. It's okay, I've come to terms with it now. So my mother didn't abort me and her drugs didn't kill me, that's just destiny right? To me it's just sad... But that's fine, everyone's story has a few chapters like that.

Of course you probably guessed I don't know who my dad is. That's also okay, I don't think my mom could remember either... Or maybe she just didn't want to. Either way I've come to terms with that as well.

I was only twelve or so before I made my own way on the streets, as staying inside taking care of my drug-dependant mother only depressed me more. I did what I had to do, and a lot of things I didn't want to. Much of my dignity was shoved down my throat, only for me to puke it up later with my next hangover. It wasn't easy, of course, getting high led to things happening that I didn't remember.

I would wake up, bleeding and sore, wondering which monster had torn me up this time. Maybe it's best to not remember that sort of thing, probably too traumatic for someone of my mental state to handle anyway.

I was fourteen when I was introduced to Heroin. I was dating a guy named Kaden, who sort of took me in after a long night of being who-knows-where and doing I-can't-remember-what.

When I turned sixteen I had my first overdose, But I'll save that story for just a little later.

Okay, just one more time and I'm gonna stop. I thought to myself as I pushed the needle into my arm.

I was beyond simply addicted, I was fatally attracted in more ways than one can count. It was a substitute for friends, family, warm home cooked meals, and self care. My romanticization of the drug kept me under it's heavy, skeleton-like hands. It was my lovely reaper. For two years I medicated myself; ignoring my collapsing veins, my skin which grew pale and thin, my malnourished body; brittle to the point of breaking, and the frequent bleeding of open sores, which my tattered clothes could hardly minimise, much less disguise.

Annabelle at age 16 (near the end of her addiction)

"Kaden come here!" I whispered to him across the alleyway.

"What's up babe?" He said and sat down next to me.

"How do you know if you've overdosed?" I asked timidly.

"When ya close your eyes and don't wake up." He said while laughing.

"It's not funny."

"I'm sorry, you feeling okay?" He asked. He was always so nice despite the fact he was the kind of guy who could kill ya in one punch.

"Not exactly." I replied nervously.

"Trust me if you had overdosed you would be dead by now. But maybe you should stop and just rest for today, you can get more tomorrow." He said quietly.

"Kay." I whispered back. I went inside the small shack that we called home, I layed down on the bed (which was basically just a mattress on the floor) And closed my eyes. A few hours later I woke up.

"How long was I asleep?" I asked Kaden.

"Long enough for me to sell a few grams and buy some food." He replied as he flipped the bacon on the stove.