Addict (Short Story)
You walked to this vicinity in hopelessness. At one of your trajectory lows, substantial woes were colonising your cognition. You had felt defeated, and that every resort you had been to – the doctors, the physicians, the superstitious, the hypnotists, the counsellors – it just wasn’t working out. Guilt was the leech of your virtue, regret was the blood injected back in. You couldn’t explain how life itself sucked the life out of you, but in destitution, what means can the desperate afford to refuse?
You were at the door of both, destitution and rebirth. ‘How many more times can I go through with this?’ you wondered to yourself, almost out loud. Relapsing, they called it. But for a person who has experienced both heaven and hell in the depths of a substance, words meant little in your world. Adjectives cannot relate what it feels like to explain the salvation, the life that a drug can give you. Nor can it touch the surface of how it brings you to the brink of self-destruction within the same stroke. People can never understand how a thing that is destroying you every second has also been keeping you alive, like a defective pacemaker. You live in an intermediate realm, which carries you with angels and drops you to the devil with no warning signs. How else could you describe your addiction?
And yet you were an unlucky one, cursed and outcast for one wrong choice too many, perhaps…yet that similar people chose but did not suffer like you. People don’t see the story behind the addict…they see the addict for his symptoms. They truly believe that you caused your circumstance. You know of your mistakes, but are reminded of them constantly, and that is metaphorically harder to swallow than any pill or liquid that has had a toxic effect, because it lives with you eternally, no matter how you try to scrub it off. All depending on what society dictates at the time. What if it were tea, you pondered, or coffee? What if drinking them was the bad habit that led to a potent addiction? What if you were someone else who didn’t have an addictive personality? Or if you lived in a better environment and didn’t have to struggle like you did to escape the dreary bleakness of existence? What do you do when nothing, in the everything you have tried, can make you bare the idea of living? Would it not be better to live off a drug than to be killed by reality?
These questions burned you now as they always had. You were in the worlds’ eyes an addict – and efforts to change couldn’t undo that. Your screams to the world would be in vain while you were like this – in the pendulum back and forth between rehab. Your hatred of society’s judgemental self-righteousness and hypocrisy would just be condemned as you, an addict, an outlier – blaming the world for your mistakes. Now, with bags in hand ready to settle for the last time, you knew that after this programme it was certain you wouldn’t be here again. It would either be a full recovery or an overdose… as you silently prayed you could make the right choices this time.