Junk

He leaned over the side of the bed, pulling on his right shoe before silently placing it on the tiled floor. It was two in the morning, the moon high in the night sky, the only light in the darkness of the room; though dim, he could see everything. It had been two days since he’d slept, a mix of pills, coke, and ecstasy keeping awake. He pulled on the same pair of pants he’d worn for days, smelling his work shirts for the cleanest before opening the top drawer of his dresser where the drugs he so desperately craved were; two guns he’d bought in the hood rested beside them, almost like trophies to him.

He picked up the bag with the pills, fishing one out before popping it into his mouth and washing it down with a stale beer that sat a top the dresser next to his jar of weed and mountain of dutch wrappers. He was a mess, but he didn’t care, so long as he could get high, so long as he could enjoy life in this half awake, half zombie way. He was just going through the motions; he’d become so accustomed to living this way that any other just seemed abnormal to him.

He checked his phone, a text from the neighbor, his boy, his brother, asking for a ride in. He replied simply with ‘sure’, not a second thought in his mind. He pulled out the bag of coke, dumping some out on the dresser. He smiled, taking a razorblade from a box cutter he’d stolen from work, cutting it up before snorting it through a twenty-dollar bill. He had a rule, as if they mattered, always snort with the highest bill you had.

This was the life of a junkie, a man getting his fix. He loved uppers, they were his bread and butter. He loved to just stay awake, though when he slept, it was merely his mind shutting off for a time. He’d go to work, three to eleven thirty, five days a week. He lived so close he’d drive home on breaks to snort more coke, or he’d just ride the pills out.

When the shift was over, he’d smoke a blunt, maybe alone, but usually with the coworkers down the block. They’d leave, he’d smoke another, maybe two before going over and picking up his little brother. He’d excuse himself before they smoked, snort another line and return to the third or fourth blunt of the day. He’d leave, smoke another, he’d smoke eight before seven o’clock in the evening when he’d get dinner with his roommate, the only meal he’d eat for the entire day, one he would force down so that he could keep up his charade of being ‘ok’ when in actuality he was dropping weight.

He would trade for coke, buy more coke, he couldn’t get enough of it, but no one saw how bad it was getting, he’d made sure to buy bulk from multiple sources so no one could see the amount he was really taking, or else those closest to him, would try and stop him. The pills he’d lie and claim he needed them for night shift, when in actuality he just wanted the fix they gave him.

Around eight, his brain would shut off as he lay on the couch, activating again when his roommate would get up around eleven to go to bed. He’d move to his bedroom, his brain once more shutting off as his eyes stared empty at the ceiling above. This was his life, and he stopped caring about his own health. He barely showered, barely maintained the room around him. He kept his problems private, though he didn’t see them that way.

On his days off he’d walk aimlessly till someone was around to spend time. He’d smoke, snort, and pop pills through boredom. He just wanted to be around people, but he never slept, ate little, and simply existed as a shell of his former self. People could see him deteriorating but didn’t understand just how bad the addiction was.

When he moved back home, he hid his addiction, leaving his drugs in the car, refusing to bring them into the house as if they wouldn’t be as bad. He snorted coke all the time by then, at work, at school, when he was out with friends, only he was sneaking it. Hiding his addiction that he couldn’t stop. It was only a matter of time before he’d finally be caught. He was going deep into debt, using credit cards to buy things like food or gifts or gas or repairs, while he used all the funds, he had to get more and more cocaine.

He’d tell himself it was a reward, see how long he could hold out before doing some, said try an hour, but he couldn’t make twenty minutes. He barely slept anymore; he barely ate anymore. It was being arrested for a second time, it was being forced to go to rehab three days a week, it was when he was finally caught, that was what took him to finally get clean. By then, his little brother was scared, by then his best friend wanted an intervention for him. He was caught instead.