The house is quiet, Eleanor is on the couch curled up in the soft green blanket on the end of the couch that I myself was just wrapped up in watching TCM. Now I'm listening to Radiohead softly on the CD player as write. My parents have gone to the grocery store. Outside its 28 degrees with a windchill in the teens. Smoking a cigarette is a hassle.
Right now I'm missing my ex Pete. I think maybe he was my soul mate. He put up with everything I doled out. He knew the real me, and loved me. We used to listen to this CD and have sex. Of course I was high, and nothing seemed like there could be wrong with the world. Christmas lights hung around our window even though it was three months past Christmas. I remember I was as rail thin, I felt sexy, I was high, I had heroin and syringes laying around on the coffee table. We would have sex, and I would tie off, and cook up a shot and push off right after naked and comfortable with my body. Chain smoking we would talk of what we were writing about in our notebooks. I always admired his writing. He had a great talent for poetry, but he wouldn't read my notebooks. He'd rather we talk about his writings. I was all right with that, because I thought him to be such a supiour writer than I. I was embarrassed at my efforts at poetry. I look back on those notebooks and those poems are some good. Mostly centered around junk, like ode to opiates. Opiate cat tails. Take me to places I will never know then just take me home.
Perhaps it wasn't Pete who was the love of my life, but Heroin itself. Heroin and I would take long walks that seemed to last forever. Just me and my lovely emotionless thoughts. The world at my feet. Words at the tip of my tongue falling out and when I made it home from my pen onto the page. Like smoke rings from my cigarette smoke. So easy just little help with some chemicals. No spinning in place. Spinning in place like I am now. Moments of clarity when I wasn't too high. No computer to write on, no that would have been pawned as soon as we had received it. Just 80cent note books and dollar pens.
The house never seemed to get a mess. There was always a glass of water on the coffee table for me to get water for my Heroin, and to wash my syringe. A candle to boil down the concoction. I always wore a belt and had shoe laces hanging on a wall where a nail protruded. A tourniquet in my bag of works. Always something to tie me off with. I preferred the shoe laces if I was shooting in my hand, the belt for the inside of my elbow, the tourniquet for my feet. The biggest mess was made by used fits. We didn't have enough used laundry detergent bottles to throw them away in and bring them to the needle exchange. So we used an old empty suite case. There were thousands of syringes in that suite case. We would go through the garbage and look for empty laundry detergent bottles to bring to the needle exchange. Plus we had that little bio hazards box for dirty needles that the exchange gave us, but that held nothing.
I remember one time my dealer was out of heroin and pills, and I was going to be going sick for a week. He told me to get on the Methadone clinic. At the time the thought of it was outrageous to me. Methadone. Ha. Instead I checked myself into a detox for that week, and then as soon as I got out my tolerance was lower and my dealer had new gear.
I have so many memories of Heroin, with and without Pete. I always went and got the dope. Pete may have paid for it sometimes, but I took the risks. That's why I doled out what he got, and that's why he never got as much as me. Which is why he never got strung out like I did. He had a chip. Junk became a way of life for me.