The house is quiet and dark. Alone once again, the only real sounds are my staggered breaths. Cautious and slow as they might be, they are still audible. My own shadow makes me paranoid, as if it is cast from someone else entirely.
No one is home except for me, my parents’ pride and joy, the straight-A student who is guaranteed a promising future from her teachers. Thankfully school has finally ended. I have my diploma in hand and no longer need to worry about keeping up with my classes.
The flames lick greedily around the wick as I watch the wax melt slowly away. No one will barge through the front doors of this humble abode to disrupt anything. It’s almost like a self-induced solitary confinement. Only better. On the table lies a metaphorical mountain of all sorts of drugs. They sparkle in the candlelight, taunting and teasing.
I can’t just let them sit there, now can I? I can’t let them go to waste.
Any sensible person would disagree with me. Any sensible person would just get rid of any evidence of drug possession to avoid a possible run-in with law enforcement.
Well, I’m not a very sensible person, and I tend to ignore the voice in my head that is a bit more reasonable. I know what I am doing will destroy a part of me and shatter everything—everyone—in my life. I have long since realized that this hideous beast that disguises itself as temporary bliss will slowly devour me, but I hardly care. All losers and no winners here, but I still have hope that I can kill the monster inside me.
My body begins to ache. The need to inhale what is in front of me grows stronger alongside my paranoia. I don’t bother turning my stereo on to drown out the sounds of my body doing what bodies do: breathe, pump blood, and tremble with anxiety. My mind shuts down, and the instinct from the demon in me takes over the bleak common sense that I had once possessed. With shaky hands, I slowly cut a few lines of cocaine and lean over the table. It burns my nostrils with a familiar pain that I lust for and after just a few seconds, it slams into me. It works through my nasal cavity and hits my brain in a wave of euphoria and concrete. My head shoots forward and I sniffle before making three more lines and repeating the process until I nearly forget who I am. The drip from the drugs makes my throat and tongue tingle with numbness. I bag up just enough for a handful of lines later and shove it into my pocket.
I am in complete bliss.
Standing up straight, I clean everything in a frenzy, making sure I get every nook and cranny. Even the tiny specks of dirt in the cracks of the table don’t get past me—I take a credit card from my pocket and carefully pick them out. Once that is done, I head into the small, dirty bathroom and fix my makeup. There is no need to do my hair, as I shaved it off a few nights ago when my impulse control had left me. I’d been sober that night, but I hadn’t felt like I was. I hide the drugs in a loose floorboard of the house before heading outside.
How is everyone so oblivious to what is going on?
Maybe they’re too worried to speak up and do something about it. Perhaps they know that if they confront me about my addiction, I’ll just use more to forget the conversation ever occurred.
It’s okay though. I am far past help. I am the monster I’m trying to kill.