Warning: Hint of possible self-mutilation or mutilation by others (cutting and stitches). Drug abuse.

Craig followed the punky, petite brunette into her apartment. She gestured to the couch and he sank down on it, already plotting his next move. A smile played on his lips as he watched her pull a small box from out from underneath the couch. He found her pretty. She was older. He guessed she was in her thirties but it was hard to be sure as her lifestyle added a few years, especially in her eyes. But her body wasn't wrecked like other addicts he'd come across, her skin was clear, and she still a bit of youthfulness in her soft facial features. But he always found an attraction in other junkies. They shared a strong common interest. He settled back and watched her fill the syringes. Morphine, she had promised earlier. He looked around her place; bohemian pillows and beads dancing over the open window. Maybe he'd be staying for awhile. How long should he wait before he could politely raid her fridge, he wondered.

He rolled up his sleeve once she sat down next to him. He could feel the intensity of her stare as he found the vein in his arm and injected the drug. Before he knew it, he felt the warmth that made his eyes almost roll back into his head. He wanted to question the second syringe that rested on the coffee table, but found himself telling her how long he'd been using and occasionally tossed in a sentence about what his father did to him and who Joey was.

Amanda listened patiently and then suggested, "Maybe you just need to test yourself and you will see that you are not weak anymore."

"Test? Like a final at school?" Craig asked, his eyes barely open. He made a slurping noise as he sucked the spit off of his lips and back into his mouth.

"A final test."

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He awoke confused and groggy. He struggled to form some timeline in his mind but the points weren't meeting up. He waited for his vision to snap into focus. It was too dark. He managed to focus in on a form in the room; she lay on the floor. When his eyes closed, he lost her. He followed a beam of light that presented him with a flashlight. He reached for it but his hand simply flopped onto the floor. He closed his eyes and waited a few moments, then sat up and was prepared to inspect the damage he had done this time.

Still weary, he began to undo the bloodied gauze on his arms. He examined the rows of stitches on his arms. He tore the bandages off of his wrists, more stitching. "Sewing me whole again. I want to be whole again," he thought as his wrist dropped down to the floor. His vision blurred slightly and instead of thinking about medical treatment he thought of the linear pattern of wheat fields. You reap what you sow. He promptly threw up when he saw the fresh track marks on his arm. He gingerly touched them. The irritated puncture marks reminded him of the wounds left on the doorframe at his fathers when Dad had removed the locks.

He had a flash of the syringes that were offered. So it wasn't a surprise that he ended up in a strange building. Then he noticed the shackle on his ankle. He angrily began to jerk around, scratching at his ankle. Another bout of dry heaves interrupted him. When his eyes stopped watering, he struggled to study his environment. The bare room was dirty and the minimal lighting only provided more grunge. If this was psychiatric, this was definitely not the posh place rock stars get ride it out in. What he got was roach motel.

It was then that he noticed the small tape recorder lying on the floor next to him. A scalpel lay beside it. Remember. Remember, he ordered himself. Out of fear, he grabbed the scalpel with one hand and the other clutched the tape recorder.

"Hello, Craig. This is your test, though you've used up all the multiple choice answers. There will be no methods of torture for you. I have faith that you will do it to yourself without much coaxing. Reflect on your past, the abused boy, the suicide attempt, the one who was given so much love by his family and girlfriends but simply could not appreciate it. It is a mystery what you really want, judging by how you seem to be on the look out for the next best thing and when you actually come close, you act like you don't deserve it and set out to destroy it. You've wasted too much. You've drained your talents and opportunities through drug and alcohol use. Sometimes bloodletting is the only way to rid yourself of the poison that is seeping in. The key is hidden underneath your own flesh."

He set the tape recorder down and grabbed the flashlight. He shined the weak beam over his arms. The only sound in the room was his rapid breathing and the static of white noise from the tape player. He frantically yanked up the leg of his jeans. Several more patches of stitches. Remember, he ordered. He twisted his right hand around his left wrist as his panic increased. He could only remember cutting into his wrists. He was still too foggy.

"I want to go home," he couldn't help but cry out. He hadn't seen Joey in months. When it all went to hell and he desperately wanted out of the mess he was in but was too desperate to actually do anything about it, he went to Joey. He lasted a few hours, anyway. Home wasn't home anymore. He fell right back into the routine and had passed out in the bathroom in his vomit. He was too far gone to do anything about the needle and cooked smack resting on the toilet lid. Upon finding him, Joey had taken care of him like Craig had the flu. Craig remembered the warmth of that moment. In that moment, he felt like he had it all. He was high and with that came the lovely blurring of everything bad that had ever happened. And he was loved.

It changed the next morning when his stepfather gave him an ultimatum – get help or get out. Craig first reassured that what Joey saw was a slip. He simply needed to get out of the place he was in. He had plans, he'd said enthusiastically. He wanted to go back to high school and go onto university. He knew that was what Joey wanted the moment he told him about the music showcase, music manager Leo, and plans of moving out to Vancouver to record his music. Maybe he'd teach music after school because the rock and roll lifestyle is too much, Craig had said in a tone that seemed a bit put on. Craig suggested that maybe he'd dig out his camera again. He had a lot of things he could still do. He could do them.

"You have to know that right now school is the last thing you need," Joey had interjected as Craig rambled. Craig then spit out every possible excuse he could; the pressure was too much in Vancouver, if he had never met the lead guitarist at that club it wouldn't have happened, it was just the lifestyle, you know how peer pressure can be, he wasn't taking his meds every day, it was a bipolar episode, he needed some different kind of medication, he was depressed, if he had never been abused he wouldn't be such a wreck all the time, it's hard not having a mom or dad, it had never been the same since Ashley left, Manny broke up with him, everyone just leaves and if Joey abandoned him now, he would die. "The answer is simple," Joey had said. "Just get help." Out of desperation, Craig had then thrown a fit that could rival the one Angie had when Joey had refused to buy her the newest Barbie. Craig could remember the exact disgusted expression Joey had as he had watched him scream and cry. So in an effort to keep any dignity he had, he left.

He replayed the message, the voice drilling into his head.

Poison. Poison. The doubt set in. He had to face up to the idea that he could not be certain what he put in his system while at Amanda's apartment. "Sometimes bloodletting is the only way to rid yourself of the poison that's seeping in," the hoarse voice encouraged. As the static of the tape began to loop, he sloppily brought the scalpel across his left forearm. He was numb and could not feel much of his hands nor did he feel the slice. His blurry vision helped him to create a new wound. When it all went black, his last frantic thought was that he wasn't sure if the dim flashlight had simply burned out or if he had faded out of consciousness.