Morphine always makes things easier.
You take it once, twice – and your life doesn't seem as shitty as it is.
But unfortunately it has its own side-effects. One of them is when you get used to any type of drugs, you're turning into a zombie looking for a dose.
Not the scariest yet. If you have a dealer – mine was Shayla – you can get as much as needed until your money runs out. And then you let yourself doze off in an addictive dream of a junky. But remember, friend: when you start mixing reality and dreams – you'd better stop. Although you simply can't. That's what I call an addiction. A true one.
I embarked mingling everything after the avalanche of the events I still cannot pull together. My mind doesn't want me to. Not sure if I'm able to speak about mind, stability and mental balance, but there's still something left, something that protects me – from myself – and prevents me from saying goodbye to my sanity. Frankly, I'd rather lose it for good.
Did I love her? Hard to say for sure. It was too late for me to realize there's a person behind the images on the social networks I hate so much and hack over and over again to see the underbelly of one's life and to make sure how fragile the system truly is. Did I need her? Certainly yes. Did I hack her too? I did. Why? Wanted to protect. I failed. Could not protect her from myself, from the guy who always wanted to be the first in the meaning I was unable to reach in reality.
I had my own one. Far too good to be true.
Shit. Angela's calling. She doesn't know a single detail about all the mess but she definitely is aware of the prison's system's malfunction. That must have been announced. That was on the news. Probably.
"Angela?" have to say something nice but can't find words.
"Elliot? I haven't heard from you in a while", her voice's worried. "Gideon told me you needed a day-off. Are you okay?"
"I am".
A pause. I shouldn't be so rude to her. She genuinely wishes I were fine. She cares. Maybe too much.
"Well… then", she sighs. Doesn't believe me. "Don't mind me stopping by, getting a pizza maybe?"
I mind; I do want to push her away, she's just too good to get involved in all that shit I've got to, but she's probably the only concerned person in that world of total bullshit.
"Tomorrow's fine?"
She agrees, suggests watching a film, I say yes although I don't really understand if she is eager to hear my opinion or just get my permission to come. Christa keeps telling me I have to meet people, talk to them, communicate, pretend to be normal as far as I can. When it comes to Angela, I try being nice, but it doesn't work usually; she just lets me be the way I am. I guess that is the reason why we get along with. She doesn't pry into my life. She has some other methods of protection and care. I have mine.
A flash of memories blasts in my mind, it explodes so brightly that I can barely stand on my feet: a loud sound in the street reminds of the night I literally met death. I don't remember it all in detail: just a pool of blood, Vera's screeching voice, then keys in my hands. My fingers trembled. I opened the trunk. Found her; unmoving. I couldn't see her face – just her crooked legs, paler than usual. Something fatal had happened; I didn't know what exactly. Didn't want to.
Morphine. That's the salvation. Morphine always makes things easier.