By Torrey Bonington
I am drenched in sweat. Curled up in a ball on the floor, I shake uncontrollably. The metronome of my heartbeat thuds "Use. Use. Use," in my chest. I close my eyes is reverie, visualizing with heartbreaking clarity what I want most in all the world but cannot have. I hear the gentle clack of the chalky white pills rattling round the translucent, dull orange bottle. It induces a Pavlovian response. My mouth literally waters for the hard, compact dose of oblivion they provide. One quick swallow and my ride begins. "If only...If only one more time..." my addict brain bargains. My mouth aches for the cool kiss of nothingness. I'm parched. The oasis of numbness beckons to me with a siren-like call. A deliciously icy mirage. I can recall the dull thud of my eyes rolling into the back of my skull at the climax of my high. A reverberating orgasm of a total lack of feeling. I reminisce about the crackle of the Fentanyl patches--their heady, medicinal scent making me pant with anticipation. And those pills--white, butter yellow, pale pink, oblong, round like candies. Mostly I pop them in my ravenous mouth. Other times I use my debit card to grind them into the devil's fairy dust and use a straw to shovel every last grit up the insatiable vacuum of my nose. I throw my head back in my own private ecstasy and feel the sprinkle rain down the back of my throat. I press my finger to the surface of my desk and buff my gums. Drugs are my beloved and my despair. My sacred and profane. I am hopelessly, helplessly in love.