New Beginnings

by Craterus


The rent is long overdue, my girlfriend's gone and my job is nothing more than a distant memory. And yet here I am sprawled across the bathroom floor wallowing in the tragically beautiful aftermath of the only answer to all of my problems: heroin.

The cold, hard, duck egg blue tiles feel strangely comfortable. A shiver travels the length of my spine and forces me to sit up. My fingers, numbed and still grasping the toilet seat, are unwilling to co-operate with the rest of my body,. The stench of vomit invades my nostrils; do I dare to open my eyes? I do, but afterwards I wish I hadn't. The light penetrates my eyes; it will take a while to adjust. I can see the blurry outline of the sink; the damp, soiled woodchip clings to the walls like a limpet clinging to a rock. My hair is stuck to my face, an unwelcome souvenir of the hours I have just spent lying face down in a pool of my own sick.

What time is it? It's dark outside. It's funny, when you're on the brown, time isn't really important. Time is measured by when your next hit comes around. Specifics aren't important; everything is impulsive. I used to have a clock in here but I sold everything that I didn't need. Who needs minutes when you have hours?

That was back when I first started out with smack, just after my mother died. She had cancer; it's her fault I'm in this situation. The doctors prescribed heroin to make those final weeks and months a bit easier for her; it made the weeks and months after even easier for me. Injecting didn't come easy at first – take if from an expert – you've got to work at it. Dropping out of college helped turn my small time hobby into a full-time addiction. Before that, I still had a future.

I remember the day I skipped my A level Biology examination. Paper two. I could have done it, I could have gone to university but other things were more important. Looking back, this was the beginning of the end. I remember watching my friends collect their results. That's when it hit home: the envy, the bitterness, the resentment towards my dead mother – I haven't visited her grave for a year now, maybe even longer. I don't think I'll ever go back.

There's a knock at the door. I can hear the lock turning. My eyes are nearly working again but my legs are still too weak to stand. I try to focus. Work, damn it! But the dim light from the bathroom isn't enough to illuminate the dark figure at the doorway. There's a voice, but I can't quite make out the words. She's quiet. Slurred. Broken by short pauses. It must be hours since my last hit.

The voice comes again; it's a woman. It's definitely a woman. She steps closer. Lightly. Delicately. Suddenly, I recognise the face, the deep brown eyes and the perfectly curved lips.. My Angie? Now the face is blank and a new one is beginning to form. My euphoria disappears as quickly as it had come and I look back into the bathroom. I want to be back in there, slumped over the bowl, with not a care in the world.

Looking back, my mother stares at me. This can't be real. One thing has changed . Her eyes lack that pride, that love that shined when when she was alive. I wonder what she would make of my life as it stands. It's not what she pictured for me. But, then again, it's not what I pictured either.

I remember how I used to be: the ambitious little kid who wanted to be a doctor, or a policeman, someone that would make a difference. What difference do I make now? I'm just another junkie. It may be too late to go to university and study medicine but it's never too late to start helping people. What if I could just quit? What if I could just start again? What's stopping me? I'm gonna make something of myself. Something she – my mother – would be proud of.

First things first, I'll get a job, pick myself up. Then, when I'm earning, I'll pay the rent. That should make the landlord happy for a change. With the foundations right, I can start to concentrate on the finer points. Some hobbies, a girlfriend, some friends (decent ones this time). I'll have it all.

But my visions of grandeur will have to stop now; I haven't shot up in a while and withdrawal symptoms are starting to kick in. I can feel the sick turning inside me, looking for the way up, the disgusting, sharp taste tingles at the back of my throat.

Sweating, I rush back into the bathroom, the vomit burning up through my clenched teeth. Chills, hot flushes, everything happens at once. Powerless to stop it, I hang my head over the toilet bowl and wait for it to stop. My heart beats faster; my lungs demand air, air I can't seem to gulp down.

I haven't forgotten what I said about quitting. Starting again. Back to my master plan. Talking, even thinking about it makes me happy, keeps me positive. I will again be the well mannered young man I used to be. I will be polite to people in the street. I will reacquaint myself with the world. I will watch the football every weekend (maybe I could even start playing again). I can't wait. But there's just one more thing I need to do before I can quit....

One more hit. Just the one. Then I'm done; I'm done for good. One final sickly sweet score. Your last hit has to be special, you know what I mean, don't you? I didn't appreciate the last one enough. Since I'm never going to do this again, I want to go out with a smile.