Memoirs of a Deadman

I wake up wondering what time it is...
Looking out the window, it's twilight. The sun looks like it's setting, or perhaps it's rising. I have totally no more recall of time, space and date.
I've had a heavy trip. I can still feel the taste of puke in my mouth. The worst part of tripping is the reaction of the body to the atrocity that it has to endure. Sometimes, it doesn't take kindly to what it's been given.
The stomach churns like a whirlpool and the head splits. Everything is too loud. Sometimes, I can't bear to open my eyes. The vision always returns like an oil painting awashed in solvent. It starts coming back in whirls of technicolor. More often than not, it just encourages the body to react as violently as possible.

Can't seem to get up and walk. The best I can muster is a pathetic crawl to the washroom.

I stare into the mirror now. Somehow I don't recognize myself. I can't remember myself being so withered. My eyes are bloodshot. I look bruised and battered. I wonder where did I manage to get that cut lip? Must've been an accident. Things like that happen when you're tripping. I've had worse falls, sometimes, face first on to the concrete floor.
I turn on the tap and wet my palms. I need to wash my face. The wetness stings my cut lips. I flinch a little, and then, I continue washing. Feeling the pain is better than the emptiness.
A smell comes to my nose. The pungence is suddenly so striking, it almost gives my stomach another reason to purge itself. I must've been sleeping in my own bile and urine for the whole of my trip. Then I realise the stink is not of the overnight bile and piss. I just shat myself. Somehow, I've not yet retain the fine motor functions that control my bowels.

This is so pathetic. So very fucking pathetic. I feel like waste and I know I look far worse.

I slowly strip myself, taking care not to agitate my already broken body. I turn on the tap and let the ice cold water wash my body. I feel suddenly pierced by icy fingers that jolts me into consciousness. Suddenly I am aware of my wasted frame.
My body is shattered. Blisters and scabs from the frequent hits cover my arms. Most of them are not even healed yet. Some of them are slowly rotting away at the skin. All of them, didn't hurt anymore. I let myself wash in the water and tears.

The cacophony of pain envelopes me.

Why am I fucked up this way?

I heave a sigh.

I dress up and lay on the mat. I really don't feel like doing anything at all. I curl up, holding my knees close to my chest. I cannot control myself.
It started with a sob. The volume of sadness amplifies louder. It ends in tears running unabated. I cannot help myself. I cry hard, shuddering,choking on my tears.

My throat feels parched, my lips are cracked and dried. I reach around and took hold of the nearest liquid. Per chance, it happens to be a glass orange juice. The glass is chipped. I take a sip of the orange juice and cut my lip even more on the chip. The blood flows on.
The juice tastes funny. Probably its fermented. Probably its just how orange juice tastes like when mixed with blood.
It didn't matter. I doubt anything much that I consume will actually kill me now.

I am mostly dead anyway.

I spit a wriggling maggot out of my mouth.

I feel the urge coming again. The withdrawal. The all too familiar cold sweat that breaks from my brow. The shivers coming all at once. I need a hit. I need to feel alive again. I rummage around. Good, there is still enough here for one more hit. One very heavy hit. Very very heavy hit. Maybe my last ever hit.

Like a ritual, I even out the grains expertly, prop the contents on to the crude aluminium foil and set the candle alight. Slowly, I rim the foil containing my life over the candle flame. I stare at the dancing flames as if in hypnosis.

I remember someone calling this shit "Angeldust". How ironic.

Slowly, I watch the powder melt in the crucible. The beautiful white now settles over the foil in the form of a rich dirty brown liquid ooze. It is slightly charred black at the sides, but it does not matter.
I grasp a spent syringe from my side. Greedily, it sucks and slurps the rich liquid as I draw it in like a pump. I inspected the needle point. It is slightly blunted, but still usable. It might just hurt a bit more, that's all. I pump the syringe a little bit. A fine thin stream of liquid sprays out of the needle point. I smile, satisfied that the passage in the syringe is unblocked.

I look at my arms, searching for a spot not stained by scab or wound. Found one. Right there on my right arm. I strap my arm up with a belt to stop the blood flow a bit, so I that can see my veins where the beautiful sharpness will impale in a while more. The shivering is getting worse. Mucus starts to drip from my nose. I need to get this over with fast.

I smack myself a little bit. Smacking works like antiseptic. It lessens the hurt a little. I flex my right arm a bit and smack myself a little bit more. The skin over my arm starts to redden. Good, that should do.

Slowly I insert the point into my flesh. It stings a little at first, and then it was alright. I pulled the trigger and pumped it slowly into my blood. I can feel the gush. It feels so good. I pull the needle out.

After that, I just pick my spot and lie there. All the pain, sorrow and sadness is slowly disappearing.

I see flowers. I see her. She just stands there. She wilts, petal by petal. She looks at me. She beckons me. Everything feels alive now. Everything is beautiful. This is my world where no hurt will ever touch me again. I see the distant light. It feels so warm.

I drift and drift away.