The Cold Tiles On My Back

Once again I tie myself off. Envisioning myself as a brave soldier in World War I. I must willingly give my arm as a sacrifice to the gods of war. My action will be seen as heroic and I will go down in history as a legend amongst my fellow warriors. The syringe comes close and is preparing to prick through my skin. I stare at the doctor for reassurance that all will be right. His hard gaze steadies me strangely and I fade into numbness as the fluid pumps through my veins. The mirror begins to blur but I refuse to take my eyes from it. Staring into my eyes at the hard gaze I am strangely sedated by. I wonder if that look would work on anyone else. The slightly stained, tan tiles on the wall feel cool against my neck as I lean against them. I can hear my friends downstairs. They keep calling my name and asking if I am okay. Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? They worry too much anyways. Ever since I was a young child, I’ve been afraid of needles. I think that is why I always have to pretend that I am something else whenever I want to get high. Maybe it’s a disease or just a phobia I cannot seem to overcome. I don’t care either way though; I actually kind of enjoy using my imagination before I load up. It would be boring if I just sat there and then jammed it into my arm. It was terrifying the first time I tried the stuff. I always used to refuse the needle and only go the route of inhaling the smoke. It works much better with the needle, I swear. My friends sure do get annoying after a while. They are out there pounding on the door yelling my name. It’s really starting to give me a headache. Can’t they see that I am in here attending to personal business and they should just leave me alone? I’ll get to them in a minute. I don’t really feel like getting up at this moment. I just feel like sitting here against these tiles and resting my eyes a bit. That door! I wish it would just disappear. If it were silent I would be able to go to sleep. That’s all I want. I usually don’t get like this when I’m high but I don’t care. It feels good and sleeping feels good so it can’t be bad. Those stupid friends of mine are threatening to break the door down if I don’t answer them. I guess it is time I go out there and have some fun. It is in fact my birthday. That’s odd, I can’t seem to move my arms. My legs seem to not be responding either. This is definitely not good. I don’t get it. What’s wrong with me? I know what I can do! I’ll call my friends to help me. They can break the door down and come get me. Then we can figure all of this out and get me back on my feet. My vocal cords aren’t working either. I have to figure this out. I’m beginning to get really scared and don’t know what I can do. I look to my side and find the syringe staring at me from the bloody hole I created when I put it in. I forgot to take out the needle. I finally understand what is happening. I’m going to overdose and my friends can’t get in. I’m going to die.1