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Default Alyssa's Story - 02-15-2011, 07:35 PM

As you know, I have a sister. Her name is Alyssa. She is an AMAZING author. She wrote this story for a grade (and she got sent to guidance..). It's the most amazing story I've ever read.
Warning: It's disturbing and it includes the feeling of drugs, so I wouldn't advise you to read it if your scared. My sister does not reccomend drugs and she'd never use them. Thanks!
This place is a hole, but I don’t wanna go.

I wish we could stay here forever alone.

The room was dark, his hair unwashed, his face grazed with stubble.
For days he had sat awake, breathing in.
Breathing in what he thrived for.
Breathing in his worst enemy.
The drip, drip of the leaky sink was getting on his nerves.
Plop, plop, as he held his head and curled his knees to his chest,
Rolling into the fetal position, attempting sleep.
But in two more hours he would take out some more of the good stuff
And roll it up and watch as the fire ignited by a cheap Bic lighter
Would flicker
And then he would smell it.
Bittersweet heroin.
And take a hit.
It burned his throat.
He couldn’t breathe.
He loved the pain.
He wanted it forever always.

This time that we waste, but I still love your taste.
Don’t let him take my place, don’t just sit there.

Seconds became minutes, and minutes became hours.
And hours became days, and days became weeks.
And weeks became months, and months became years.
Had it really been that long?
Two years since he first set foot,
Chuck-clad onto the shaded corner of 4th and Pike.
Two hundred dollars that he splurged on
The word made him cry inside.
Cry tears of joy.
It made him break.
He’d cry for seconds.
He’d cry for minutes.
He’d cry for hours.
He’d cry for days.
He’d cry for weeks.
He’d cry for months.
He’d cry for years
On heroin.
Cry those tears that no one else could hear.
So it didn’t even really matter.
He had gotten “clean” once before.
He let the tears out when he did.
Because everyone around him was so happy
That he was better.
More like bitter.
Because he only lived fifteen minutes from 4th and Pike.
His safe-haven, his happy, his everything.

Sometimes I wish you would leave me.
Whoa, I’m not sick of you yet.
Is that as good as it gets?

He admitted that sometimes he wished he really did get
Cured from this disease.
He wanted to become a better man,
But the heroin was his honey:
Sweet, delicious, and one little bottle could last forever.
In this case it was a bag.
He wasn’t sick of it.
Couldn’t get sick of it.
Because he wanted it,
Needed it
More than anything in the world.

I’ll just hide it, or I could slip into you.

It’s so easy to come back into you.

He was good at keeping it a secret now,
Or so he thought.
He would wait until Sunday morning,
Since he had lost his faith,
And creep up to the bathroom,
Lock the door,
And listen to make sure the car had pulled out of the driveway.
Listening for the drip, drip, plop, plop.
Everything went on from there.
An adrenilene rush
Like nothing he had felt before.
It was like he was on top of the world,
On top of the universe more like it.
It felt like helium was bubbling in his stomach.
Warmth was eating at his brain,
Yet his lungs were as cold as ice.
It was amazing.
This was something he could get used to again.
He whispered hello.

I stayed for a while, and waited for words.
Seen but not heard, and struggle to try.

But somehow they figured out
About his Sunday morning affairs
And they pulled him aside for an intervention.
His mother cried.
His sisters cried.
Even his father cried, who had never shed a single tear before him
In his entire life.
He felt like crying, too,
But he was as high as a kite.
Drained of energy yet as bubbly as champagne.
Calm yet nervous.
The guilt was eating at him.
And it ate him alive.
Shattering his heart.
And it left him.
He was siding with a monster.
For dead.
A monster that ruined him,
And everything else important to him.
But unfortunately,
Nothing was as important as the monster itself.
Survival list: food, water, heroin.
And honestly,
He could even do without the food and water.
He stared blankly at
His mother, who was crying,
His sisters, who were crying,
And his father, who was crying the hardest.
He was half the man he wanted to be.
He couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t sleep.
He couldn’t live without his need.

My tongue’s turning black, but I’ll take you back.

You’re still the best, more or less, I guess.
I guess.

He could fake it again.
He did it once before.
He just had to get through the doors
And stay a few months,
Then check out
And never look back.
He’d be 18 soon anyway,
On his own.
He missed the flawlessness
Of his smooth rocky life
Refusing the label of “druggie”.
Addict, yes,
Well, maybe.
He missed it already.

Don’t you leave me.
Whoa, I’m not sick of you yet, is that as good as it gets?

Rehab was terrible.
He would get sick.
He was pale and weak
And he still couldn’t speak.
He missed it
Missed the crinkle of the tinfoil
Missed the flame
Missed the wispy curl of the smoke
As he exhaled.
Tinfoil, cigarettes,
Missed the rush.
Now his cheeks were flushed
Beads of sweat dripping down his jawline
Gaining back all of the missing weight
And he hated it.
Contemplating and reminiscing everything.
The invisible tears has definitely reappeared
By this point, if they were ever missing in the first place.

I’ll just hide it, or I could slip into you.

It’s so easy to come back into you.

Cigarettes were the next best thing.
At noon everyday, his breath would be taken away.
He loved to see the familiar wispy curl of the smoke
And feel the pounding in his chest;
Thump, thump, was his headache
And his heart.
Hint menthol would ease the urge for heroin
For now.

It hurts me to say that it hurts me to stay,

And it might be alright if you go.

It was everything
It was nothing
It wasn’t important
It was the world
He wanted it gone
He was afraid to let it go
He was afraid
Afraid of losing the battle
Afraid of relapsing
Afraid of 4th and Pike
Afraid of alone
Sick of terrified.
He’d stick to the Marlboro’s

It hurts me to say that I want you to stay,

But it might be alright if you go.

He couldn’t need it anymore,
Look what it had done.
That’s why in the summer
Everything was perfect.
The weather, vacations
The photographs and faces
The lack of the cravings,
And there were the tears.
He was clean.

So leave me,

Whoa, I’m not sick of you yet.
Is that as good as it gets?

Sometimes he still had doubts
That’s when the Marlboro’s came in handy.
He knew he would struggle,
But he was okay,

I’ll just hide it, or I could slip into you.

It’s so easy to come back into you.

Now he faced a new addiction;
The cigarettes.
Once an addict
He could get the breathless feeling,
The worthless feeling,
Always an addict.
Without any of the legal issues.
But it would kill him eventually either way.
His face still looked somewhat worn
And his eyes were mysterious and dark
Like he was curious
4th and Pike
4th and Pike
Johnny D
The Johnny with the drugs
The good stuff
From pills to powder,
And everything in between
It’s so easy to come back into you.
He snatched his car keys off of the kitchen counter,
And stuffed a Benjamin in his pocket.
This was the third time in two years.
He lived heroin
He breathed heroin
He needed heroin
Forever always.

Sometimes I think that the bitter in you and the quitter in me

Is the bitter in you and the quitter in me.

He stopped ten minutes in
And pulled up into a gas station parking lot
Turned off the ignition and sat in silence
He walked inside
As a whiff of staleness hit his face
A buttery staleness
A strange but comforting smell
Where did he remember it from?
He walked up to the register,
Asked for a pack.
He’d stick to the Marlboro’s.

The bitter in you and the quitter in me

Is the better in you and the quitter in me.

He drove home and smoked
Three cigarettes
They lasted him hours
As he thought
He decided he hated himself
Angry tears threatened to spill out of his eyes
Then he ate
Then smoked
Then ate
Then smoked
Three more cigarettes down
Three cartons of vanilla bean ice cream
Two bags of Doritos
Three apples
Two turkey sandwiches
Might as well start cold turkey by eating it
Now he had a reason to walk
Into the bathroom on Sundays
And lock the door
And turn all the water on
And bury that sound;
So no one could hear anything anymore

The bitter in you and the quitter in me is bigger

Than the both of us.

Mirror lie to me, tell me you can see.

Maybe you won’t be able to recognize me now.
I know you can feel all the things you feel,
And you’re taking it, and you’re taking it.

He needed the bitter
He needed the rush
Of something
It all looked so big
Never mind, he didn’t feel anything.
It was just going to become part of his every day
A replacement for the heroin
But he was okay,


Joey Thunder is perrffff ♥
"I'm not angel, I'm just me, but I will love you endlessley." [endlessly, the cab]
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