Tears of an Addict pt. 1

By J. A. Allison 12/20/17
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Hello, my name is J. A. Allison, a.k.a. @LLeVi8ed and I have a drug addiction memoir blog. http://jaallison.blog Please check it out and thank you reading. This is a short intro to the story.

Sept. 2009

There were two bodies here, but only one heartbeat.

The blood raced up to my head as I drew myself up off the bathroom floor. I had nearly made myself sick moving her body there from my bed. The dizziness just about spun me back down to the ground. This couldn’t be happening. My best friend was lying lifeless on my bathroom floor, with her face, colder than the unkempt linoleum she lay upon.

I didn’t have any dope in my system; I should’ve been sicker than hell. The shock must’ve masked it for me to somehow manage this nightmare.

I knew in situations like this, time was of the essence. It was a life or death circumstance, unless, of course, she had already passed, which was despairingly likely. I was in my one-bedroom, one-bath apartment, which then, felt like a revolting realm of misery and malady.

I had to find her purse to determine what she had ingested the night before. It wasn’t going to be too hard to find though—her purses tended to be huge, gaudy bags that would likely fit my entire wardrobe. Also, of a brand like Gucci or Louis Vuitton—only the best for her.

Nonetheless, I loved her. She was the type of person who would spend hours getting ready whenever we went out. She was the definition of “fabulous,” and always made a strong, glamorous entrance letting everybody at the party or club know she had arrived. I would tend to cling to her at these places; she breathed spirit into the party so we’d invariably have a raving time together.

I would never date her though. If anything were to happen and we broke up, I would be devastated. I’d never risk losing my best friend in the world. Now, I might lose her anyway.

The purse was sitting behind my flea-infested sofa. Easy to find, since it lived in the heart of the living room, or the “Boom-Boom Room,” as it tended to be after hours. Inside the cavernous bag, it wasn’t hard to find the bright-orange prescription bottle, where she carried her stash. I popped open the pale, child-proof cap with ease to discover broken bits of Xanax.

Oh God no.

My soul sunk to its lowest depths as I could feel the shock dissipating. I felt a wave of nausea twist my stomach among another wave of vertigo hitting my head. My first thought in unfortunate times like these:

I need a shot, Now!

I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how this could’ve happened. Until, the dusty light bulb in my mind I thought was broken, ignited once more. It was a nauseating realization. I crouched down at the open toilet as I started to heave. It was more like choking on air—my stomach hadn’t had any solid food to process in days. There were merely a few burning drops of bile. After a minute, I stood up slowly to confront myself in the mirror and state it out loud.

Snot was running down to my chin, mixing with the salty tears pouring from my damp, ghoulish eyes. I’ll never forget that salty taste, nor, the piercing pain. I couldn’t tell if it was from the sickness or from the invisible knife twisting slowly into my chest.

“That bastard must’ve given her a taste.”

I’ve known for a long time, and had even cautioned others, to never, ever mix pills, especially this certain, sort of mixture. For a normal person , or even an amateur drug addict—both unlike me—it is invariably a lethal combination when you combine Xanax with her… the other love of my life—

…heroin.

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