Eighteen Days Later: Mark
"February 1st, 3' am, Eastern Standard Time," I say. My camera is at its now familiar resting place on the tripod, the stigmatized lens pointed in my direction. I don't film much else anymore; at least not when I'm on my own. It's hard for me to control the camera... my hands never stop shaking, save for a few euphoric minutes in the middle of the night.
"It's been two weeks since my first hit, and I've filmed every one since then. I know that it's morbid, and that I could be committed for doing something like this, but I don't care. I don't have flesh to confess my sins to; only film."
I stare at the camera. The familiar whir of the film rotating is the only sound in the loft. It's almost peaceful.
Slowly, I pull the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow, showing off a series of track marks: 17, to be exact.
"There are seventeen track marks on my arm. I didn't think it would get this far. I figured it would be a few days before someone noticed, and tried to help me kick it," I pause for a moment, sighing. My eyes wander to the thatch of track marks, but I manage to focus on the camera again. "Angel and Collins are still MIA. Roger and Mimi have been fighting a lot lately, but they never seem to come up for air. Joanne is somewhere on business. Maureen actually came to visit me yesterday, but she was so involved in planning her next protest that she didn't notice. I mean, I was sweating and shaking... fuck, I was even parading around in an undershirt, just begging her to look at my arms."
I shake my head, realizing that I'm still sweating and shaking. "It's been almost twenty-six hours since my last fix. I know that I'm not in withdrawal, but the little bit of smack I can afford stopped being enough a week ago."
Reaching beneath the stool I'm sitting on, I produce a Ziploc bag containing my drug, along with another, which holds a spoon, a lighter, and some syringes. I wave the bags in front of the camera.
"I got my own needles four days ago, which is an improvement to using Roger's old ones. There are still a few used ones in his drawer, so I'm hoping he won't notice and go ballistic."
I laugh, realizing how pathetic I sound. A month and a half now, and I still haven't seen him. He wouldn't notice or care if I had sprouted a third eye, let alone used his needles. I remember the way he used to be: I tried to get rid of them once, just after he'd stopped using, but he wouldn't let me touch them. I can still hear him screaming.
Mark, don't fucking touch those! My blood and shit is still all over them. God, don't be so stupid... you don't need to commit suicide too.
I absently repeat Roger's words to the camera and snort. "Ironic, isn't it? He cared then, when all I wanted to do was free up space in his sock drawer. Now, he's too busy to care. He's too busy to even drop in and say 'hi'."
I open the bag with my supplies, taking out the lighter and the spoon. Sifting the pure, white powder into the bowl of the spoon, I let the flame hover below it, melting the grains into a smooth, fogged liquid. I slip it into the syringe, watching it slide gently to the bottom of the translucent tube before closing it off. I give my forearm a curt slap, waiting for a vein to pop from my track marked skin.
I poise the needle above the vein and look at the camera again.
"Fix number eighteen. February 1st, 3:13 am, Eastern Standard Time," I say, and I plunge the needle into my arm.
When I look at the camera again, the pain has gone, and I feel a lazy smile creep onto my face. I know that the high will only last a few minutes, maybe three or four if I'm lucky, so I wait, letting the poison pulse through my veins.
"The world is so fucked up anymore," I hear myself say. "Maureen fucking left me for another woman. Benny has become a yuppie. All he cares about is money. Collins has finally found someone he can be happy with, but I miss him. Roger is living with HIV and an HIV-infected infant of an S&M dancer. Mimi's sweet, but she's so young, and she's in the middle of some bad shit. Me? I'm injecting myself with something that I swore I'd never touch. And you know what? It's some kind of wonderful."
I wave absently at the camera, watching as colors explode before my eyes. For a few seconds, I let go, and I don't feel anything. Slowly, the high subsides, and I feel the grappling pain wrack my body. I jump from the stool, leaving the camera on.
The bathroom door is open, and also within the view of my camera. I race in, and collapse on my knees in front of the toilet. I throw up. Pause. I manage a few breaths, and throw up again. It's at this point that I always hope someone will walk in; someone will walk in and see what I'm doing to myself and try to save me, but it never happens.
I curl into a ball on the linoleum, sobbing. It's been eighteen days, and my life has already been reduced to counting the track marks and being desperate for new ones.
If
only they could see me now.