He Gone

I walked out of the treatment center and out to the parking lot. A sense of impending doom hung over me, in my weakened withdrawing state like a grim reaper. This was going to go horribly bad. I waited out front until someone picked me up. It was Christmas Eve. I was strung out, non compliant, sick, lost, and totally screwed. I prayed that my friend picking me up would have something with her that I could do to get my sick off. Of course, she did not. I had her take me to my friend’s house, the girl I had been with throughout all of this. I knew she would have something. I just wanted the pain to go away. Cottons. That’s all she had was cottons. Junkies will save the cotton that we use to draw our heroin up through, in case of a rainy day, if the cottons are boiled in the spoon and mashed up, they will release a little juice to help provide some relief from the desperation. It’s basically pulling the residue left over from the previous use, out. It helps a little. In my case it was a God send. I cooked the 12 or 15 cottons up and drew the brown juice up. The heat rushed from my feet to my brain, and it helped, a little, but it was really just a tease. It just reagrivated my craving for more. It was time to go. My friend had indicated to me that she had some cash, about 50 dollars. We were about to make a run. “This last time, I swear to God!” I promised her. She was furious, she knew what kind of trouble I was going to be in. She knew drug court would have my head for this. Oh, trust me, it gets worse. She denied a trip at the current time, but assured me that once she got back from her family’s house for Christmas Eve we would go. I would just have to wait it out. At my house. She told me I had to leave, because the signal coming from my GPS would certainly be pinging the shit out of her place right now. They would know I was there now. And they would certainly be able to track me every where I went. This was getting worse by the second. I agreed to wait it out, and promised my friend hat I would go home, plug my monitor in and call drug court and leave a message and be honest. Yeah right. To both. I was already screwed, I’m gonna go till the wheels fall off. Oh, they were about to. That’s for sure. I was not in my right mind. I asked our friend to drive me home so I could plug in and call. She agreed to drive me back. I got inside my apartment, and just sat down on my couch, staring at the floor. All of my life’s choices and consequences swirling in my mind. It was like a movie. Stealing. Lying. Drugs. Fear. My sons birth. This day. Mom. It was a horror show. I knew I had two choices, or I thought I did. Call them, or run. I cried. I prayed. And I smoked cigarettes. I was so consumed by fear and grief. I was so alone and broken. I was scared shitless. I remember watching myself walk into the kitchen to grab a knife out of my drawer and returning to the couch. I say the knife down on the coffee table, and lit another smoke. My mind projected to possible consequences. None of them were good. My life was totally fucked. I had gotten myself back to a point of utter desperation and total degradation. I was back at the wall. Hitting it over and over again. “Fuck it.” “I’m sorry mom.” And I grabbed the knife and cut the GPS bracelet off of my ankle, jumped up, threw some shit in my book bag, ran out my front door, and locked the dead bolt behind me. Shit just got real….

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