The End

BY ANONYMOUS AUTHOR

This was written a few weeks ago. After hearing that Philip Seymour Hoffman suffered from drug addiction to heroin, it seemed appropriate to share this story again, as it serves a purpose in keeping the awareness of the heroin epidemic alive. When will society stop denying that there is a big problem that is tearing apart our country? When will they stop judging the junkies and the alcoholics for who they really are: shining stars who are so bright they have to do drugs and drink to dim the light and just exist in a world that drives them away and pushes them to the edge. Jim Carey tweeted after hearing of his passing: “Dear Philip, a beautiful beautiful soul. For the most sensitive among us the noise can be too much. Bless your heart. ;^{”

 

The door is locked, he made sure of it, and he felt a small feeling of safety as he sat down on the white carpet of his bedroom. Safe and secure in his little cave of escape. It is as if he is in a trance. A candle is lit, the only light in the room, and the shadows dance around the posters, the trophies, the family photographs like black ghosts of the past. Around him lay an assortment of items, each in a certain place. His ritual will not have it any other way. He picks up the first item on the list. The preparation gives him this sickly sweet sensation that rumbles in his gut. His palms are sweaty. His heart begins to race.

He almost forgot one important ingredient in his recipe for escape…music.

He walks over the piles dirty clothes, empty pizza boxes, water bottles, cd’s, books, notebooks filled with 10 years of diary entries since he was 13 when he first got high, to the stereo sitting under the window that is covered up completely with a blanket to block out the sunlight. He presses play and hears the familiar sounds slowly pour out of the speakers. The musical notes of the bass guitar give him goose-bumps, and for a tiny moment that he doesn’t even notice the music lifts his soul up out of the darkness it has been living in for 10 years.

Then the guitar strings flutter out and hit him in the chest. He closes his eyes and listens, and just for a few seconds his mind is clear with no manic thoughts and no terrorizing past.

We chase misprinted lies
We face the path of time

He opens his eyes and remembers who he is, itches his arm and why he needs to do what he has to do. He walks back to the center of this room and sits down crosslegged as if he was going to meditate like a Buddhist monk. For a while he just stares at the flame from the candle as it dances to the beat of the drums, the stringing of sad chords, and that voice filled with pain.

And yet I fight
And yet I fight
This battle all alone
No one to cry to
No place to call home

The ritual requires concentration and precise measurements. He feels that familiar urge overcome him. For a second he stops and wonders if there is any other solution. Any other way. Maybe he could change. He thinks of his family and how much he has put them through. It starts in the heart, the gut wrenching pain burns, and it spreads until nothing remains but total insanity because he would have to be crazy to not do this…thing.

Oooh…Oooh…
Oooh…Oooh…

He couldn’t hear the knocks on the door.

He couldn’t hear the banging and the screaming of his friend’s voice calling out his name.

He couldn’t see the door break open and see police and EMT’s enter his room.

He couldn’t watch his friend crumble in tears watching such a beautiful soul laying with a needle in his arm.

He couldn’t wake up.

 My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can’t be my own
I’d feel better dead

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2 thoughts on “The End

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