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Chapter 1 – Highly Unaware
Tightening the belt around his upper arm with his teeth, he grasped the needle and held it over the flame, burning it along its entire length for several moments. Removing the needle from the flame he drew it along his arm to the vein in his wrist, the ones in his forearm worn out from the constant use. Wincing at the pain, but unable to stop himself, he inserted the needle into his wrist and shot the heroin into his arm.
The rush of euphoria that came from the needle caught him up as he removed the belt. He rode the rush like a wave feeling for a brief time completely in control of his life. Once the initial rush wore off he stood and packed his needle and belt into his camera bag's hidden pocket, and dropped the lighter into his pocket. Pulling down his sleeves he walked out of the dark room and into the hall way with a light step, his eyes dilated behind his glasses.
It was 1985, and most days Mark Cohen was too high to realize what the date was. To all outward appearances he was a normal person, slightly with drawn from the world, but with a bright promising career making documentaries and other films. What the world didn't see was his constant use of heroine, taking it in any form he could get, hiding it from his family and friends. He had started heroin half a year ago, and had quickly become dependent on it. Most time's it was only that he was such a creature of habit that he could get up in the morning and arrive at the news station in order for his shift as an intern to start.
Mark Cohen had the world in front of him, and he was addicted to smack. On this particular winter day he took his normal route home from the new station, riding the subway to the out skirts of town. He stopped and went into a 7-11 store and bought his normal, Welch's Grape Soda, and if he paid for his dollar soda with a twenty dollar bill, and received only three ones and a small white bag as change, no one commented.
Continuing down the street to a bus station, he caught his normal express bus to Scarsdale and continued the daily trek home to his parent's house. His bag of white powder was securely hidden in his camera bag. He entered the house just in time to sit down to a meal, eating little, though his mother forced plenty upon him. His mother started clearing the table, and just like always, Mark excused himself, and got his bag. He kissed his mothers cheek and bade his father a good night before heading down to the basement where he had his own personal studio where he would "work" until long hours of the night had passed.
Thus was Mark Cohen's life in the year 1985.
a/n: One of a series of new stories about to come out from me and MissHollywood