It's warm.
The air is stale, and the stench of sweat dangles relentlessly throughout the home. Crisp, jet black hair dangles beneath my shoulders, and I feel truly sorry for the handmaids that are forced to wear a veil in this heat. It would make things that much more unbearable.
Upon occasional eye contact, the first thing I pick up on is their immediate judgement. Slim, petite, and helpless. That is what I know they think of me. The only thing that they think of me.
But it doesn't bother me.
It's only a thought.
I cook, I clean, I speak, I think. That is all I do. Temptations don't exist anymore. Not like they used to. The old, pleasent memory of lasting euphoria and sweet needles is slowly fading, probably for the better.
But that doesn't mean I don't miss it.
I constantly reminesce of times when I would seal myself away in alleyways, beneath docks, and when I would travel hundreds of miles out into country, in a car, with just a syringe and a small, light bag of heaven.
Happiness.
Pure, simple happiness.
Why heroin?
ReplyDeleteIn a past life with so much freedom you must have had an extremely bad one. If you really needed an HIV infected needle in your arm to make you happy, then you were, and are, a very very pathetic person. Loser. I would rather talk to a handmaid whore instead of you.