My best friend H

I sit on this horrendously smelling couch. Again. That smell. No matter how often I sit here, it never escapes me. It smells like piss and vomit and still, I return here. Every day. Sometimes more than once. Because my friend calls me. In front of me is a low table. The legs have been sawed off, to make it this low. It’s full of crap. Mostly crap. Some things on the table are important. Very important. My hand sweeps across the table and I roam through the little foils and tiny bags. Most of them are empty. My hand shakes. I need it. Soon. I feel like crawling out of my skin and tearing out my hair. I need it. My legs start shaking, I can’t keep them still. It’s like they are dancing with my best friend. My hands become more desperate and less precise. A prick on my finger. But I don’t care. I need it. I leave a little trail of red drops on the table, decorating everything in a morbid manner. But I don’t care and I know that nobody else will either.

We are all in this together and we are looking for the same thing. And I found it. A precious little package. I empty it over a spoon and add a little sugar, before holding the used spoon over a candle. Candles, the whole room is lit in candles. Candles everywhere. The only light in the otherwise dark room. The stuff takes too long to melt on the spoon and I start fumbling with my free hand, to roll up my sleeve. Again, I rummage around the table and soon I find what I am looking for. A syringe. For a moment, I wonder if it’s the same, that stung me earlier and if it is clean. But my urge lets me forget those thoughts. My need is bigger than the thought about preserving my health. I don’t go to the doctor’s anyway. I have no idea, if I am infected or not. I don’t care. The others don’t care either. We share everything. We are in this together anyway. Always looking for the same thing. Sharing the same best friend.

With shaky fingers, I fill the syringe. I need it. I need it now. No more time to waste.

The needle enters my skin. I always do this softly, gently. I like the feeling of the metal breaking my skin. At first it resists, but then, it gives in and the cold needle quickly warms inside my body. I push down and the calming escape of reality enters my body. I feel it flowing through my veins. Spreading inside of me. It isn’t a stranger, an unknown. It is my friend. I pull the syringe out and throw it on the table. Not caring anymore.

My friend makes me tired. Always so tired, but he takes me to a dreamland. He helps me escape the grotesque face of reality. I inhale deeply and let myself float on a cloud that feels like cotton. High and higher up in the sky. I can see down on all those people that want to hurt me. They can’t reach me, here on my cotton cloud high in the sky. No evil can reach me. My friend is there to protect me. He engulfs me with his warmth and I feel safe as long as he is with me. Better than sex. Much better than sex. They don’t satisfy me anyway. They – the johns. They get off and I get the money to buy an orgasm on my own. One that always comes. Always. Except sometimes. Sometimes, my friend refuses to come to me and help me forget. Some times, instead of flying higher and higher up in the sky, he lets me fall, shoves me down the stairs hard. And it hurts. The deception always hurts. But it’s because he loves me and he wants me to be with him longer and more often. Only him. Only me. Only us. Together, we can conquer the world.

Nobody else matters. Nothing else matters. When he lets me fall, I fall deep. I am afraid without him. Scared to death without his warmth. It makes me cower in the corner of the dark unfurnished room. Far away, were no candle light can reach me. I make myself as small as possible. Invisible. I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear the screams. Make them go away. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see those faces. Make them go away. I wish for someone to just hold me. Save me.

Leave me alone. I don’t need to be saved. Don’t touch. I can’t have anyone touch me. I’ll break into tiny little pieces, like a glass that has fallen down and broke. And the shards will hurt and cut me deep.

Today, my friend didn’t let me fall. I open my eyes. I feel free. I feel good. I feel excited. I own the world. I see the zombies passed out around me. I am not one of them. My friend makes me invincible. I am not one of them. Not until the next time my friends calls me. Not until the next time I need him. My best friend. H.


Author’s note: This is all an imaginary writing. Nothing based on actual personal experiences!

Author: Catherine

37. Unquiet mind. Writer with a deeply rooted love for music. Likes reading in the bathtub. Heartbreaker. Perfectly imperfect mother of 3. Published poet.

5 thoughts on “My best friend H”

    1. your comment took me off-guard, but in a good way. Thank you for reading this and commenting 🙂
      It’s really an intense piece of writing and it touches and touched people very differently…
      Somehow I never mentioned that H is actually Heroin, but I think, by the end of the story, it’s obvious anyway.


  1. Good writing makes you feel like you are having the experience described, yourself; whether you have actually had the experience or not. This piece does that. Thank you


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