Day Two. Morning.
It’s 2am and my leg cramps refuse to let me sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. Sharp, cutting, heroin withdrawal compresses my calf muscles into several knots the size of golf balls. I just finish jerking off for the tenth time since midnight. I’m completely dry, shooting blanks. The orgasms last only seconds and kill the pain for just one short breath. I cannot go on inside this fucking shit-hole.
“Heroin. I need Heroin. Fuck this. Fuck this,” I yell sharply into the cool dark air.
There is absolutely no point is staying here. All I do is talk about my past. I’m outa here tomorrow. I can’t take another five days of this nonsense. My stories ain’t ever gonna change anything I’ve done. What happened to me is “House Business.” Dad said we don’t speak ever about stuff that goes on inside the four walls of our house. It was his Number 1 rule.
I followed Dad’s rule the morning I gave the eulogy at his funeral. It was December 11, 1984. I had about twenty minutes before I met Mom at O’Donnell’s Funeral Home for our last visit with Dad. I needed heroin and I couldn’t mess around with “beat” bags. I grabbed a couple “rainbow” bags and bit the corner. Quinine! The bitterness flip-flopped my stomach. It was pure. The baby laxative was too easy to spot, it made you want to shit immediately. I needed two bags, cost me eighty-bucks.
Lying was easier whacked on heroin.