20. The Past
The Past
TJ
I am going to die.
I’m dying. That’s what’s happening. The pain ripping through my insides. The violent vomiting. The shaking and the sweating and the not sleeping. This has to be what death feels like.
“Are you sure no one’s ever died from this?” My voice sounds like I swallowed a sheet of sandpaper and washed it down with a dozen razorblades.
Reggie sighs. “Like I’ve told you the past twenty times: You’re not going to die.”
I groan and roll onto my side. It’s been one week since I shot up. Seven days since I’ve had a drink. Withdrawal is pure torture. Reggie says it gets worse before it gets better. I sure as fuck hope this is the worse part.
He wasn’t kidding when he said I’d get desperate. I’ve taken a few swings at him—landed one. I attempted to sneak out while he was asleep—he wasn’t. Last night, I even thought about stabbing him in the leg with his own kitchen knife during dinner.
It’s crazy how the mind succumbs to the addiction. You crave the drug the way your lungs crave oxygen. The pain of withdrawal is so intense, all you want is the very thing that put you in this situation just to make it stop.
“You’re almost out of the woods.” Reggie drapes a cold washcloth over my forehead.
“I’m going to die in these woods.”
“You’ll need to remember this when you feel the itch to use again.”
“Once it’s out of my system, won’t the cravings stop?”
Reggie pins me with a look. “The cravings will never stop. It’s in you. You’re going to fight this for the rest of your life.”
“Then what’s the fucking point?”
“That is the point. If you can do this, you can do anything. You’ll be stronger. Smarter. Better.” The corner of the bed lifts as he stands. “And you won’t be dead.”
You’re going to fight this for the rest of your life. My stomach rolls and I reach for the bucket.