I watched as he sat, struggling with the bloody mess in front of him. It was our last hit and he had missed. Again. At this point, the hit was just a revolting mixture of blood and water with a little heroin in it.
He diligently fought with it though, while I sat in disgust. I was so pissed off that I wasn’t high and he was, and yet there was a new feeling – something that had been stirring inside of me for weeks, fighting it’s way to the surface – resentment.
I hated him. I hated my life and I fucking hated heroin. I was living in a self-induced madness. Closed off from the world by a wall ten feet high, made up of old cottons and syringe caps. I needed out.