WARNING: This work of fiction deals with the struggles of addiction. Reader discretion is advised.
At only 19, the girl felt she had lived an entire lifetime. She sat on the edge of the tattered bedspread and lit her last Newport. Her exposed legs showed the journey that her body had endured. The scabs bled from all the scratching, but it was simply a side-effect of euphoric relief.
Piles of clothes and cigarette wrappers littered the floor. The nightstand was the pristine sanctuary. Everything that mattered rested there, lined up perfectly. The needle, the tiny bags and the lighter grouped together as if they were the Sunday morning choir. Praise be unto thy holy triune.
Her bicep trembled as she tightened the belt. The rest of the cigarette would have to wait. It dangled on the edge of the ashtray. It was time.
She lifted the needle to the light and flicked it gently. Nothing kills a high like an air bubble. As she exhaled the vein popped out so perfectly. Blue had become her favorite color.
The pinch was more of a pleasure than a pain. It was the precursor to the end of sobriety. Finally free from everything less the nightstand. She doubted she could ever be free from that.
Her fingers struggled to unhook the belt; she was loosing feeling in her limbs all at once. The belt fell to the floor and eyes rolling, she exhaled backward onto the bed. She closed her eyes. A burning sensation covered her body. This was a new feeling, a new level to surpass in the next round.
The half-smoked cigarette had ignited the bedspread. She tried to tell her legs to stand, she tried to call for help, she tried to at least fall to the floor. The high was just oh so sweet. It consumed her.