Part 2
You open the drawer to find that letter still staring back at you. Imagine that you have never read it, that it is just another of the things in the drawer that serve no real purpose, placed there with hope but left alone and unused. Like the RX bottle. Methadone stored in a condescension orange vial, courtesy of a holier-then-though doctor. You dont need them you dont need any of them. No, what you need is in those little baggies. Your hand passes by the prideful orange bar of dial soap and over an old photograph of your mother and you. The picture shows a much younger you. Unkempt cock-sure orange hair flowed like fire from your head and down your shoulders. Now the hair just lies there in stringy clumps. The hand stops at a shiny penny, Abes face sculpted in dignity orange. No time to pause, quickly the mirror, spoon, razor blades, syringe and needles, lighter, mirror, surgical tubing and the last little baggy containing what you need are all gathered and placed haphazardly on the counter. Looking at what is left you see a tube of disdain orange lipstick and those little pills that help you wake up, no need for either now. You grab the smug orange surgical tubing and tie the tourniquet around your upper arm. The mirror and baggy are next the rock is dropped on the mirror and you use a razorblade to break it. Your eye catches the blood on the blade turned from red to vainglory orange. Forget it; drop the whole thing in the spoon. You hold the spoon above the lighter, its arrogance orange flame dances under the bowl and melts the precious contents. Now a needle and the syringe its hubris orange plunger raises as the liquid from the spoon is sucked deep inside. You find the vein that will serve as a super highway for this special cargo. The needle pierces the skin and the fat until it meets the vein underneath. Blood seeps up the syringe informing you that the target has been reached. With a mighty push, the plunger forces its contents into the waiting vein. Your other hand reaches up to loose the tourniquet and you feel the first sign of the rush. You sit on the bathroom floor and enjoy your reward, pleasure, ecstasy, and then sweet oblivion takes you.
You open the drawer to find that letter still staring back at you. Imagine that you have never read it, that it is just another of the things in the drawer that serve no real purpose, placed there with hope but left alone and unused. Like the RX bottle. Methadone stored in a condescension orange vial, courtesy of a holier-then-though doctor. You dont need them you dont need any of them. No, what you need is in those little baggies. Your hand passes by the prideful orange bar of dial soap and over an old photograph of your mother and you. The picture shows a much younger you. Unkempt cock-sure orange hair flowed like fire from your head and down your shoulders. Now the hair just lies there in stringy clumps. The hand stops at a shiny penny, Abes face sculpted in dignity orange. No time to pause, quickly the mirror, spoon, razor blades, syringe and needles, lighter, mirror, surgical tubing and the last little baggy containing what you need are all gathered and placed haphazardly on the counter. Looking at what is left you see a tube of disdain orange lipstick and those little pills that help you wake up, no need for either now. You grab the smug orange surgical tubing and tie the tourniquet around your upper arm. The mirror and baggy are next the rock is dropped on the mirror and you use a razorblade to break it. Your eye catches the blood on the blade turned from red to vainglory orange. Forget it; drop the whole thing in the spoon. You hold the spoon above the lighter, its arrogance orange flame dances under the bowl and melts the precious contents. Now a needle and the syringe its hubris orange plunger raises as the liquid from the spoon is sucked deep inside. You find the vein that will serve as a super highway for this special cargo. The needle pierces the skin and the fat until it meets the vein underneath. Blood seeps up the syringe informing you that the target has been reached. With a mighty push, the plunger forces its contents into the waiting vein. Your other hand reaches up to loose the tourniquet and you feel the first sign of the rush. You sit on the bathroom floor and enjoy your reward, pleasure, ecstasy, and then sweet oblivion takes you.
you write well. I like your style and cadence.