Looking for some opinions on my short story?
Question by Chemistry Nerd: Looking for some opinions on my short story?
I just wrote this a little while ago and am looking for some opinions. And to clear this up now, no, this is not me, so don’t worry about that. It’s just how I imagine someone in this position to be.
This is titled “The Diary of a Drug Addict”
I can’t believe I keep doing this to myself.
Every time I watch the point break through the fragile membrane of my skin, I wonder – “Why?”
The sweet nectar – poison – that offers such an easy high. That is what I live for. Shooting myself again and again, the crooks of my arms becoming riddled with purple blossoms.
All for the sake of a high.
Sometimes I just really want to kill myself. Off a cliff, a little bit too much in the vial – would it even matter? So easy…so trivial. I’m not even a human being to die anymore. I’m just the drug. Doesn’t everyone want drugs gone?
The only thing that really kills me is my mom. God- my mom. She hates them – my drugs, my boys, but she can’t handle the stress of keeping me away.
I still don’t know whether I want her to or not.
I know my mom is not an idiot. She’s seen the blood stains when she does my laundry; she’s seen me coming home, loopy and stumbling.
Just happy to be high.
She knows I’m a delinquent. And I am, I guess. I sneak out ever night and shoot up; every school day to smoke. I’ve had truant officers after me; I’ve been failing every class. Nothing unusual anymore.
Of course, it wasn’t always that way. Nope. To be english about it (see, I do learn), the turning point of my life happened completely accidentally.
I remember how my hand shook the first time I held the needle. I couldn’t do it myself – he had to do it for me. And now I’m so numb I don’t even feel the prick anymore.
That was pure, though. Everyone says you have to be crazy to even do it pure, but that’s only if you’re not good enough to find the good stuff. Mixing cocktails, cough syrups, little white pills stolen out of the medicine cabinets -we don’t even know what they are.
But they work.
I don’t even know what happens to me afterwards sometimes. When you mix it strong- and I mean strong, the world kind of fades away. I usually have an inkling of what’s going on, but, nah, I’m too out of it to care.
Let’s just say I’m probably not a virgin anymore.
Look, I’ve never worn a promise ring. I’ve never had a Catholic veil or whatever on my head. I’m not breaking any promises. I’m not ruining myself because I was never built to be anything more.
So what really is the problem with doing it?
It feels good- isn’t that what matters in the end? All the girls out their holding hands with their boyfriends – don’t you do it because it feels good?
And yet I’m scorned because I do it a different way. A better way. It’s not my fault the prudes refuse to get real ecstasy.
They’re all the same. They stare, but they refuse to approach. They call me – us – names from a distance – stoner, druggie…whatever. The names don’t really matter to me – because I am just myself. Labels do nothing – I learned that the first time I swallowed three times the recommended dose of painkillers.
Yeah, and I survived.
So what do the labels do? Nothing. They’re just a description of what you look like – what you “should be”. The only thing that matters is what you really are – codeine, heroin, meth.
Because, in the end, that’s all I really am – a drug.
Best answer:
Answer by LostInCalifornia
This is quite good and paints a pretty graphic picture. I’m glad it’s not you, but I assume you must have some knowledge of this to be able to write this. You definitely do have a talent worth pursuing.
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