The Junkie Tales by J. A. Kazimer

Author:J. A. Kazimer
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Obscure Publishing
Published: 2010-10-11T04:00:00+00:00

“Marco,” a crackhead yelled from up the street. She was dirty, eyes unfocused, her skin scabby and pitted.

“Polo,” he called back, laughter bubbling inside him.

The crackhead’s eyes narrowed, but the shadows offered refuge from her blank stare. “Marco, is that you? Where you at, man?”

The irony of the game was lost on her, so he gave up and returned to the job at hand. He slipped a blackened spoon from the box and shook out a fair amount of poison onto the corroded metal. Chucking a glob of spit onto the spoon, he dipped the spike into the mixture and slowly stirred. His hands trembled, growing slick with sweat. A chilly rush of air ripped past him, whipping the trash on the ground into a frenzied dance, much like the one he did daily.

He flicked his lighter. Nothing happened. Fuck. He closed his eyes and sent a prayer to the heavens above. He flicked it again. Sparks flew from the flint igniting the fuel.

The bright blue flames licked at the edges of the darkened utensils, causing tiny bubble to rise to the surface. Tiny bubbles…

Was that a song?

He shook his head, focusing on the loving ritual of cooking dope. Powder to liquid, liquid to vein, vein to no more pain…

Was that a song?

Some demented Sesame Street rhyme?

The smack heated, welcoming the thin steel point of his needle. The syringe filled, growing warm against his calloused fingertips. The plunger slid slowly along the cylinder like making love.

But he just wanted to fuck.

So he tore it back with force.

Time was the enemy.

Love a faded memory.

The spike, held at ready, filled with promise. One pinprick away. He half stood, slipping a black belt from the worn loops of his grimy Levi’s. The leather smelled of dead cow. Of weekends spent on his grandfather’s farm.

He rolled my sleeve back, carefully searching in the dark for the knowing lumps. Like reading a map he traced his life back by each track. The journey began here, he rubbed at the oldest wound half-covered by scar tissue.

His finger traveled along the road to hell, finding today’s destination. The hardening lump of the injection site was warm to the touch—infection, corrosion and decay—buried just below the surface.

Licking his fingers, he wrapped the leather around his arm, pulling it taunt with crooked teeth. He pressed his fingertips against the vein feeling the swell of blood backing up in his arm. He prepared himself for the battle ahead. The needle popped through layers of disease and tissue. The sharp sting faded as the spike hit home. The vein rolled, but he fought it.

A junkie bull ride.

A bright splash of red shot into the syringe. Pressing the plunger down, heat raced through his vein as acid met blood. His eyes filled, wetness seeped along his cheekbone. His stomach lurched expelling acid and bile in a junkie rainbow. Mucus and blood splattered across his chin, but he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, a smile floating on his cracked lips.

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