With Eyes Closed, Jason Miranda [most motivational books .TXT] 📗

my throat as the senses comes back to mind and I choke on the words, “I love you too.” I don't mean it. Those are just words to me now. Now that she's dead and I'm left with nothing, except you. You have become something else, something farther than the sun from where I lie. I am all alone.
I close my eyes and brush back the stale dry tears that keep trying to fall. I can't let them show. I have to be strong. I know this. My hands caress your sides and you pour into me, leaving me breathless in the wake of every mistake I ever made. Like when I give in to you each time, knowing it's wrong, knowing the betrayal. But I must. It's the only thing that keeps me sane.
The one thing I have left that keeps me alive.
I can't cry, I refuse to give you the satisfaction, though I want to. Because I miss her “more than the sun misses the rain.” Because I long to feel her again, to touch her face, and to know her like before. Before the addiction consumed her, and so consumed me. I try so hard to hold on to that memory... her gorgeous blue eyes, her creamy white skin, her long brown mess of hair that was always too curly and tangled for her, but just perfect for me. I remember she hardly ever left the house without straightening her hair because she was so insecure about it.
Ah, insecurity. Her fatal flaw. Your perfect weapon.
I still can't believe how easy it was for you to use that against her. You're sick. How long will I force myself to endure this putrid example of naivety run amok? I suppose as long as it takes to find her again. To bring her back to life. To see her again as I remember her and to share our lives as one. Until then, I will live this lie, because I'm so afraid to be alone and so scared to let this die. Like you let her die.
I pull you even closer and in contrast to your fierce nails tearing into my skin, I gently massage the dimples at the small of your back until you moan so loud my ears ache. It's that time again. Time to bring myself to the lowest level and feed into your lies, just to keep you happy. Just to make sure you never leave me.
As you bring me deeper into you, I recall again how deep that hole was, and how you never even tried to fill it again. Perhaps the dirt was too wet. Or, more likely your heart was too frozen. There was no funeral for her, no eulogy, no celebration of a life well lived, no gathering of friends and family to say goodbye. There was no gravestone with pleasant words etched into the face of it to keep her memory alive. There is no place for me to leave her flowers and speak to her in hopes that she'll hear what I'm saying.
No. My thoughts and words fall only on death's ears.
Her body still lay in that empty forest, beneath the trees, surely hidden by now beneath a grave pile of multicolored leaves. I cringe to think of the decay she's succumbed to by now. No more bright blue eyes, no more creamy smooth skin, and no more silky auburn hair- just a crumpled mass of bones and decomposed tissue. Still, even in her state, she's more beautiful than you will ever be.
I hate you so much.
But, I loved her too much, so I keep my mouth shut, close my eyes and bite the bullet. Take one for the team. I try to imagine it's her I'm making love to and not some monster whose touch makes my skin crawl. But how long can I do this? How long?


Truth...

You force my hair back with your long fingers and kiss my neck, my chin, my cheek, my lips. Your breath smells like ginger and burnt vinegar. We both know why, don't we? Oh the bittersweet smell of morphine and a slight dash of fentanyl. Lovely isn't it? It's hard to get that taste out of my mouth, especially with your tongue jammed down my throat.
It's become like routine now.
Wake up, take the dose, inhale death. Enjoy.
Sex. Sleep. No time for food. We're not that hungry anyways.
Take the dose. Sex. Sleep. Run to the bathroom to throw up our stomach pains, and maybe take a shit while were there.
Take the dose. Sex. Sleep... We haven't left the house in days it seems.
Another dose. Sex. Sleep. Shake. Shiver. It's too cold in this room, Damnit!
When will it end? When will it end? This hurtful cycle that's tightly gripping at the seams of my already torn soul.
It gets me through it all though, so I can't hate it entirely. Am I a victim, or a hypocrite? Either way, it's the only thing that works these days. It keeps the reality of the whole thing in check, you know? Yeah, you know. Probably better than I do. It's like candy to you. For me it's like... well, it's kind of like I'm one of those psychotic patients pacing lazily through the mental ward, and your that heartless nurse with the devilish grin and greasy yellow hair, making her rounds with tiny plastic cups of routine medication to keep us... peaceful. But we're not really. Not on the inside. Physically I'm numb, sure, but here in my mind is a deep cesspool of sadistic thoughts and horrific pain bordering on twisted pleasure. There is no such thing as relief. I have no release.
My body won't move and my mouth won't open, but my mind is constantly screaming out, 'I want to go back! Back to the way things were! Can we? Please?' I beg to myself. I can't ask you these things because I already know what you would say.
“Just one more hit, baby. One more, and then I swear it's all over. Okay?” My eyes open scrupulously. The sex was over and I hadn't noticed. Am I really that high? You're back on the floor again, brewing up another round. I look up and realize I'm shaking again, uncontrollably, and I can't stop crying. I want this to be over and you know that I do. You just won't let it end. God, I'm so weak.
“Come over here. I need your help to light it." It's so much easier to cook up with a helper- one to smoke, and one to hold the lighter. You know this because your clever little self looked it up online. Just google, 'Best ways to cook heroin and smoke it.' Even you were surprised how many hits there were and just how useful the information was. Me, I just couldn't believe it was so casually broadcasted over the web, and no one seemed to care. Maybe they should have. Maybe we wouldn't be here right now if someone had slammed their fists on the table, opened their mouths and said, "Goddamnit, man! Think of the children! We can't allow this." NO, that's not true. I know as well as anyone that the prohibition of anything only begets more desire for it. It was going to happen regardless.
I remember you wanted to shoot it up at first. Straight through the veins and to the brain. The ultimate high. You were so excited and then so bummed when I told you I couldn't. I hated needles too much. So you were kind and compromised.
It's a long process to smoke the drug, but it's worth it to you. We methodically go through the steps again, and suddenly I realize that you're right. The high is leaving, and I'm falling back into a place I don't want to be again.
We quickly start by flattening our five by five piece of material- aluminum foil, not glass like so many foolishly use, because it takes too long to change temperature. Foil is perfect because it heats and cools almost instantaneously. Gotta love the world wide web.
You carefully place a tiny piece of the ruthless beast in the center and I try to keep my hand from shaking long enough to grip the lighter tight, and the foil loose but secure.. We don't want to drop it again. Last time we spent an hour eying every last thread of carpet for another tiny morsel of solace.
“Okay. Light it.” You say, and the countdown starts.
Five...Four...Three...Two...One... Blast off. Houston, we are a go.
“Okay, Release.” You inhale and the smoke rises in a beautiful gray stream that shoots straight to your lips. We finally got the timing perfect. Less waste. Mom would be so proud.
Your head falls back, and I'm actually jealous. I get like this every time. My lips feel dry and my tongue practically hangs out of my mouth when I watch you feel what I can't wait to feel again. How did it come to this? How did I let this happen? Oh... I remember.
Above me, I can hear a soft patter on the roof. It must be raining. I wouldn't know, all the windows are closed and the doors are locked tight. I'm cut off from the outside and it's been this way for so long. I miss the rain... I want to feel it on my face again.
Oh God, I remember the night you killed her. It was raining then too. The night you killed us both. With your precious drug, like a knife cutting away all life. This is your creation. Your masterpiece. The knife was your paintbrush and somehow you've changed the color on the canvas. It was once a glowing red, passionate, loving... now it's an undaunted black- and black is YOUR color.
Black hair.
Black lipstick.
Black skirt.
Black Heart.
You've slowly stolen all the hues from my world. I'm stuck here in this dark room, lit by a single waning candle because you claim the light hurts your eyes- further proof that you're a monster. Somehow you've forced yourself like a wedge into my soul. I'll never get her back. For the life of me I can never change what we've become. You've won.
A single eager tear finally falls past my cheek and lands on your hand, freezing on impact. I take the hit, and close my eyes, slipping precariously back into your world. For a tiny moment I'm free, but there's no escaping the inevitable. This is all real. This is no dream. You killed her, and I let you, and this is my punishment.
Behind my lids my eyes convulse and all around us things that I can't see are moving. I slip in and out of consciousness and each time feeling closer and closer to the terrible