WARNING: DRUG USE AND ADDICTION. LIKE... REALLY DARK. SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING. CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH! RATED M FOR A REASON!
I wrote this a couple of years ago, and have just got around to posting it now. I still feel like it's incomplete, so any and all friendly comments/constructive criticism would be very appreciated. Thanks for reading this!
"I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom." -Edgar Allan Poe
I don't want it. I don't want it.
It's dark. Too dark too see anything but faint outlines of... he can't even remember exactly what's in the room with him. There are no distractions from the voices. He's all alone with them, and he can't escape. He knows they're not there, but it's hard to convince himself of that when he can feel them whispering against his skin; intimately, seductively, beckoning him to give in to their taunts and their promises of a better place.
The vials and syringe are on the other side of the room, and he hasn't used since Tobias, but it doesn't stop his body from mimicking the effects of the drug. He can feel the numbing sensation spread through his extremities, his mind slowly becoming unwilling to obey him, his eyesight dimming. His veins hum and vibrate, and his fingers trace the ones that run along his left forearm. Without his consent, his head slowly nods back and thumps against the intersection of two walls that have cornered him, leaving his neck completely exposed. He knows it's not there, but it's hard to convince himself of that when he can feel the heated blood slowly trickle down the side of his head in streams of red down his neck. His throat lets out a sharp gasp when his fingers reach the crook of his elbow. They press down, imitating the needle, eliciting a soft moan from his mouth. His fingers draw small circles around the scars from the injections, the scars taunting him, never allowing him to forget.
As if I could ever forget.
His only form of a sanctuary, an escape from his own tormented mind. He doesn't want it. His one relief from this world that wouldn't let him be, and he doesn't want it. The sensation of being in nothing and everything, his ultimate refuge, but he doesn't want it.
The sounds of the water he left running fades from notice, and all he can hear is his shallow breathing, his heartbeat increasing in his tightening chest. His hand grips the small bottle tightly, and he vaguely wonders when he had gotten it. His shaking hands fill the syringe as the pins and needles sensation from lack of blood flow spreads throughout his forearm. The needle pierces his skin, and for a brief moment... he feels nothing.
Then it comes.
His head lolls back as a groan escapes his throat. There's nothing tangible anymore, only different levels of light and darkness, curtains and veils of grey and smoke, rustling in the breeze.
His eyelids grow heavy as he gazes across the room. There's even less distinction this way, less distinction between his own mind and the truth, what he's truly seeing and what his mind is fabricating. He can't say he doesn't find relief in that. In knowing that he doesn't know, and for once, that it's all right.
His eyes flutter shut as his breathing slows, and he feels himself drift into unconsciousness as tears fall from his face.
I don't want it... I don't want it.