-
Bottles and Ashtrays
---Metalhead118
“You’re a loser.”
The voices were louder this time. The louder they became, the weaker I became.
“Shut up,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
No longer were the words out of my mouth did it become louder.
“Who the f*ck do you think you’re talking to? I’m you, d*ckweed! You think telling me a weak demand will stop me? You worthless sh*t!”
Those words sent a sharp pain into the frontal lobe of my brain, as if a knife was impaled through my forehead. I held my head and curled into ball on the kitchen floor, lying among empty liqueur bottles and ashtrays, littering the floor. An empty syringe sat in one of ashtrays, accompanied by a spoon and burned down candle.
“C’mon,” the voice coaxed, “just one fix. The pain will go away and you’ll live your life another day. Just one fix.”
I shook my head frantically, “No…no more. I can’t do this anymore.”
Another explosion of pain ripped through my skull as another wave of soul shattering words penetrated my psyche.
“No more? Are you f*cking retarded? You can’t drop it like some chick you f*cked from a one night stand or you’ll end up in an asylum for drug raving lunatics! Is that how you wanna spend the rest of your teenage life?”
I took a glance at the bottles and ashtrays, then looked away, disgusted.
“If it ends all of this, then I’m willing to do it.”
“Well,” the voice snickered, “so you think it’s gonna be that easy?”
I staggered to my feet, holding onto a counter for balance. My head hurt like hell and my legs felt like sopping wet noodles.
The voice continued, “So you think life is gonna be f*ckin flowers and rainbows if you get rid of all of this? You think no one else is gonna rip your heart and soul in two? What are you gonna turn to when sh*t hits the fan?”
I clenched my teeth as if to break them as its words tore me apart, sweat beginning to form. Then the voice laughed a horrible, victorious cackle.
“You’ll come back to me. ‘You were right! I am a worthless dipsh*t!’ That is what you’ll say. You will p*ss and moan, just like when you couldn’t pull the trigger!”
That was it. At that moment, I snapped.
“SHUT THE F*CK UP!!!”
The seconds after were a blur as I let out all my bottled up guilt, rage, and agony on a cupboard door. My punches made loud cracking sounds, coming from breaking wood and bone. My own exhaustion was the only thing that made me give up and sink to floor, sprawled and propped up against the wall. That’s when the voice snickered again.
“Can’t do it, can ya? Chicken sh*t.”
I lifted up my shattered hand, a crushed ball of flesh. Blood oozed from it, but amazingly, I felt no pain. I was in a drugged out daze, numb to everything, except that damn voice. The voice then lowered its tone to an almost comforting coax.
“Is it worth it,” the voiced asked motherly, “Who are you doing this for? Why are you willing to putting yourself through so much pain?”
I don’t know what it was; the question or the hint of concern in its voice, but I began to laugh. Sweat began to pour down my face and my crushed, swollen hand began to throb painfully. I looked up aimlessly as if a new found strength filled me to stand up to the voice.
“I do it because people out there, people who love me, are hurting because of me. They... no one... deserves that.”
I cracked a weak smile, thinking of certain individuals who want me to grow and fulfill my dreams.
I continued, “My best friend is going through this, too. We can get through this…together. Then, there is her…”
I trailed off, consumed by the self hatred and guilt for what I put that girl through.
“She always wanted me to be happy,” I choked back tears, “but she knew what I was doing was killing me. I never listened to her words, her cries, to make me stop. She wanted me to live. Now look at me, I never listened to her and now she’s gone. Somehow…I need to do this for her. Make it up to her, ya know?”
Then I waited. Waited for the voice to come back and tear me down. Make me feel like sh*t. Make me into something I don’t want to be.
It never came…
I let out a long, pain-stricken sigh, the pain coming in full in my hand. I wiped the sweat from my face and wobbled to my feet. I grabbed my cell phone, thought about her, but dialed my best friend’s number.
It’s a long, hard road out of hell, but I know I’m not alone.
"Hey...man, we need to talk..."
- by Metalhead118 |
- Fiction
- | Submitted on 04/04/2009 |
- Skip
![](https://graphics.gaiaonline.com/images/arena-images/ic_paper_corner_32x32.gif)
- Title: Bottles and Ashtrays
- Artist: Metalhead118
- Description: A short story I made reflecting my drug addiction. I made it for the other members of the Narcotic's Anonymous meetings I was attending about a year ago. It's a bit edgy, but it's a real issue not meant to be a sugar-coated piece of crap.
- Date: 04/04/2009
- Tags: bottles ashtrays drugs addiction hate
- Report Post
Comments (3 Comments)
- CannibalWizards - 09/13/2009
- Amazing. I <3 It.
- Report As Spam
- GreanTee - 05/21/2009
-
Whoa.
It's like...the only piece I really read all the way through.
I love it. (: 5/5 - Report As Spam
- Xxsorrow_memoriesxX - 04/06/2009
- very motivating, very well written too. check out some of mine? i wrote a poem about drugs (glass specifically).. and i have other stories. i like this story...if its really about you, then i really hope you make it through...
- Report As Spam