My general fear of needles was overridden by the fear of
having them in my house, that’s the only reason I could think of that I would be holding so many of them. They
were in drawers, cupboards, and in the hands of addicts who were plunging their
misery deep within their veins. A number of them appeared to be covered in
something sticky which I determined to be battery acid, but when I woke up, I
had the thought that it might be heroin. My twisted sheets revealed a sinister
contortion of movements while my brain was portraying a vision of my biggest
fear, needles.
That’s how I spent the last few moments of slumber this
morning. I planned to write a whole post in dream sequence, but the memories
faded within minutes, and I thought of something even more terrifying, reality.
Just after I started using meth for the second period in my
life, I had offered up my home as a temporary shelter for two women who were
both in need of a place to stay. They were both users and they both had
children. One of them, I knew, was a needle user. I explained to her my almost
irrational fear of spikes, and said that under no circumstances would the use
of them be tolerated under my roof. Meth addicts are always very responsible,
and follow the rules, so I knew I had nothing to fear.
It was within a week that I spotted the first evidence. I
found the bright orange cap to a syringe sitting right on top of the trash can,
and I had a minor panic attack because I couldn’t see the rest of it. There was
nobody at home at the time, so I spent the morning looking around for further
indication of their use, but found none.
Time marched on, and I started using more, and gradually
became accustomed to finding the occasional wrapper or discarded plastic covers
and what-not. I guess we make a lot of exceptions as addicts, and I figured
since nobody was getting hurt, it was ok.
These two women brought me nothing but trouble. One was a
drug dealer who used none of her profit to help out with bills. The other, a
terribly abusive mother who did nothing all day and left her child alone in a
high-chair in front of the T.V. while she sat in her room getting high. The
latter would bring over equally awful friends who would also contribute
nothing, and add to the general chaos that was becoming a flop house. In a way,
I was trapped. I had to allow all of this because I had no other source at the
time for my drugs; if I kicked them out, I wouldn’t be able to get high
anymore. Slowly I became withdrawn from the scene by hiding in my room. I was a
prisoner in my own home.
I awoke one morning to find that I was once again alone in
my huge apartment in Fountain. I walked up and down the hall enjoying the
quiet. I walked into the bathroom and on the second step, I felt something
enter the arch of my foot with great precision. It didn’t really hurt, but it
was stuck so I turned on the light for further diagnosis. When I saw the
syringe sticking out of the bottom of my foot, I gasped. My stomach was turning
over in an effort to purge only bile, as I hadn’t eaten for days. I was so
afraid I didn’t even want to pull it out for fear of touching it. I sat down on
the toilet and tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn’t sad, I was angry and full
of hate, and I wanted so badly to muster the courage to pull that fucking thing
out of the depths of the softest part of my flesh. And I did it, and I threw it
against the wall as blood began to trickle down to the floor. Bile crept up as
far as it could without breaking the levee, and I swallowed it back. It was
over, but now there were new fears.
Who had left a needle in the middle of the floor? Did they
have A.I.D.S.? Do I have A.I.D.S.? Fuck.
That’s what I remember from the incident, I may have blocked
the rest out, or simply forgotten. I’ve gone over my word limit which may also
account for the abrupt ending. I don’t have A.I.D.S.
