The Sweetest Perfection
The rain made a repetitive staccato clatter on the bedroom window as strong winds pushed it onto the glass. Inside, a stained mattress was positioned in the corner, a dirty pair of worn trainers lying next to it. Woken by the hammering sound, Tommy shakily pushed himself up onto his elbow. As he did so, he caught a brief glimpse of himself in a broken piece of mirror up against the opposite wall.
Aye, you’re a right fooking Gollum now, he said to himself. Drawn and haggard, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken and his t-shirt hanging off him, he looked down at his arms, pitted with tracks.
Tommy knew it was already too late for him, but he didn’t care. He just needed another hit. There was less time between them these days, but if he didn’t get it then he knew what would happen and that would be worse.
He’d tried it once. Cold turkey. Just him in a room that he’d asked a friend to barricade him into. Enough food and drink for a week, books, magazines and a borrowed iPod to listen to. Two days later, he was crawling the walls. He’d smashed the window, climbed out, shimmied down the drainpipe and scored from the first dealer he’d found. Kevin was pissed about the loss of his iPod, but he needed to something to trade in.
He’d overdosed that day, taken too much. Always happened when you hadn’t had a hit for a while. It hadn’t stopped him though. As soon as he was out of the hospital, he was straight back on the scrag again.
He sat up and reached underneath his thin, reedy pillow for the small package he kept there. His precious. Aye, you’re a proper Gollum, he thought to himself.
Carefully he opened the package, feeling a buzz begin to rise in his veins as he stared at the contents. When he’d first started on heroin, he’d been told never to share with others, so he’d kept his own, just for him.
And every track, even pinprick on his body came from the same apparatus. The pain was getting worse each time of course, as the sharpness dulled from repeated use. But for Tommy, the process was part of his addiction, and it wouldn’t be the same if he changed what he used.
He looked at it. The numbers and lines had worn down on the side and begun to disappear, but he instinctively knew how full it should be – or how full he wanted it to be. And the action was still smooth, that was the main thing. The speed at which it delivered. Consistent so that it didn’t overwhelm, but not too fast so it left you wanting more.
He flushed it through every time. He thought it made the hit more intense. Got rid of anything left inside from last time. Kevin said it didn’t make any difference. But it did to him. It felt cleaner somehow.
Not that it mattered anymore. He was fucked and he knew he was fucked. He had nothing left now, all sold or bartered away. But there was no way he was going on the methadone. He’d seen friends in the chemist on the high street, forced to wait till everyone had left before they were allowed their dose. Sitting there, twitching away on chairs trying to keep it together whilst some old woman asks about herbal medicines.
Fuck that. And they’ve lost their teeth. Nobody tells you that when they sign you up. They just tell you it’s cleaner and it’s free. Get clean and restart your life, they say. Don’t throw it away. You’re got a future.
Doesn’t help though, you’re still addicted. He knew addicts that had been on it for 15 years. Every fucking day, in the chemist, losing your teeth as you drink something that doesn’t even git you a hit anymore.
Nah, not for him. Not for Tommy.
He looked down. He’d gone through the motions on autopilot. Funny, he thought. He kept doing that these days. Missing out on the best bits as his mind wandered.
Here we go. The main event. He tightened the tourniquet around his arm and looked for a spot. There wasn’t much to choose from, the veins hiding from him as if they knew what was coming. He opened and closed his fist quickly, trying to prime them into action.
There, he thought, there’s one rising to the surface. He lay the point on his skin, aimed inwards, his thumb on the other end. He eyed the chamber, full of dark brown liquid. He slid the point in, grimacing in pain as he forced into the artery. He pushed his thumb forwards slowly and purposely, watching the plunger push the liquid down into his arm.
He loosened the tourniquet and the wave came almost instantly, washing through him, taking away any pain and enveloping him in warmth. The sweetest perfection. Touching so sweetly. Reaching so deeply.
He fell back onto the mattress as his eyes rolled back and up as his eyelids closed; his breath shallow and his body limp. Meanwhile, outside the rain and wind intensified, hitting the window louder and louder.
Tommy didn’t hear it.