The touch of the needle. The sting as it pierces my skin. The pressing down of the syringe as the contents tucked away inside enter my bloodstream. The surge of adrenaline that I feel as the contents get absorbed through me, and my brain begins to register the effects of the substance. An initial pause — which turns into a euphoric bliss after a few instances — is the time in which I begin to reflect on my choice. Am I the one in charge of my addiction, or is it in charge of me?
My hands have now become bloody, that I can clearly see. Whose blood is on my hands: Is it of the one who sold it to me, or of the one who told me to do it? Is it of the one who gave me my first ever hit, or of the one who didn’t stop from me from doing it? Is it my fault for having succumbed to my vices, or is it the world’s for forcing me to do this?
Whatever. I don’t care anymore — now, I’m fully intoxicated; now, I’m relieved of all of my worries and fully submerged in my desires. But wait — what is that I see within my vision? What could it be, and what does it want from me? It looks to be a specter, a vision of the mind. It approaches me carefully, and asks me one question: