Cocaine Addiction

I sat hugging my knees on the steps of the library. That stupid sandwich truck was late again. I probably should complain, they came by every night and they gave for free but that night I was starving. I’d been coked up for 2 days and now it was wearing off. I was hungry, cold and getting into a terrible mood. For a moment, I let my thoughts wander and I wondered about my kids.

I have 2 kids. I have a little girl 5, and a boy, 3. When my habit got bad I left them with my mom. At least they would be fed and taken care of which is more than I can give them on the streets. All I’d have to do is show up and tell my mom that I’m ready to do rehab. Where the hell is that sandwich truck? I saw someone I knew (and suspected may know how to get some coke) and ran down to meet them. No luck finding any. It was not going to be a good night. I could tell already.

I saw people starting to gather near the street and I fell in line. Dinner must be rolling up. I guess it was nice of these people to do this but by then I was in such a bad mood I pretty much barked out an order.

“Two sandwiches, hot chocolate” I said tensely. “Oh, and do you have any blankets?”

Lucky me, they did so I got my food, drink and my warmth for the night. I didn’t eat that food, I inhaled it. In fact, I wished I had more. It was time to stake my claim for some real estate for the night.

I found a fairly secluded spot and wrapped up in the blanket. My head hurt and I knew it was going to get worse. I began mumbling to myself and I knew that the sweating would begin soon. At that moment, all I wanted was to shoot up. All I wanted was enough to give me a buzz for a few minutes. It was always “just one more” with me. I started trembling and I suspected it was more from lack of drugs than the cold.  How many times would I detox myself only to go right back to shooting up? Then I heard a familiar voice saying “Hey there, sweetie.  Looks like you could use a little help.” One more…just one more…

I’ve got to figure out a way to get out of here.   They may think they can keep me from leaving this house, even nailing shut my windows, but I will find a way out.  They can’t watch me all the time; after all, they do have to sleep.

At least I have the Internet and Facebook, even though they took my cell phone. I’m so angry that I want to scream.  I’ve got to get out of this prison they call home.

They are doing it for my own good.  How many times have I heard that?  Yeah right, all they are trying to do is control my life – keep me from having fun with my friends.   So what if I tend to miss curfew and so what that they found the little plastic bag hidden in the back of my sock drawer, its only cocaine.  My grades are decent, I don’t miss school, and so what’s the big deal?  It isn’t like I have a problem.

What were they doing snooping through my stuff anyway?  I’ll have to ask that the next time the prison warden allow me access to the rest of the prison – probably at dinnertime.

I’ve got to get out of this place, and when I do, I’m not coming back.  They are going too far with this madness.  I don’t have a problem; obviously they have the problem, locking me up like a common criminal, saying they are going to get me help.

I need a line and I need it NOW!! I’ve noticed my hands are shaking, and I’m starting to feel a little anxious.  This is what happens when you’re treated like a criminal by your parents, it makes you freak out.  A line would calm me down.  I know it would, it always does.  And they say it’s dangerous, addictive – HA!  If they only knew how much it had helped me through finals, preps for the SAT’s, and those endless college applications to get into one of the Ivy league schools that they were so intent on me going to, they would probably change their tune, but listening is something they won’t do.

I have an idea – I’ll message James, he’ll know what to do, how to break me out of these four walls that were once my bedroom, but have become my own personal prison.  He has the answer to everything, not to mention he’s always there when I need him.

Just as I knew he would, James comes through again.  He’s going to hide some coke beside the swing-set in the back yard, which means all I need to do is convince the prison guard that calls herself my mother that I need to get some fresh air.  Even if she sits beside me and observes every move I make, which I know she will, I know I can pick it up without her noticing.

I’ll message James and tell him to make sure he puts it in the grass at the base of the left swing leg, facing towards the back door, that way I won’t have to look for it, and I can drop something on the ground, and when I pick it up, grab the tiny bag to.  Mom will be none the wiser.

I’ll make sure he sends me enough to get me through this prison sentence, all while being the perfect son, and before you know it, I’ll be back in business.   I’m going to owe James big for this, but I don’t mind.

I feel better already, knowing that in less than an hour my little piece of heaven will be waiting below.   Now if I can get the parents to stop crying all the time and telling me that I have a problem, life will once again be good.

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