Going Back

The bong was lit and we took some heavy hits. “Ah… High again.” I said.

We heard screaming from the room next door. The shrieking of an animal with a fatal wound. “Is he trying to get clean again?” He asked me.

“Yeah.” I said, taking another hit.

“You have anything to make him shut up?” He asked me.

“Are you buying it for him?” I asked. “No? Then the answer’s no.” I said.

“Don’t you pity him?” He asked.

I laughed. “You are new to this game, so I don’t blame you. But I’ve been through every kind of withdrawal. ’Tis the price I paid for wanting to get every kind of high. So, no, I don’t pity him. I can’t. His life’s not in danger.”

“You are too harsh.” He said.

“Then buy him a hit, caring one. Do it and I’ll take his pain away, right here and right now.” I said. He didn’t speak. “Help him now and you’ll have to help him ’till the day he dies.”

“I can’t hear him screaming like that.” He told me.

“I’ve heard worse. He’s suffering, but he ain’t dying. Not with this substance.” I said.

“What have you heard?” He asked.

“Seizures and deliria that no dope can give you. They’d have me dead if I wasn’t lucky.” I said.

“What drug did this to you?” He asked.

“Booze, the most vicious. And then the pills they gave me. They were supposed to wean me off this junk, but I’m still dying if I skip them. That’s why I can’t feel pity for our friend. Because no matter how deep he goes, there’s always going back for him. But for me…” I said, putting the pill on my tongue. “…there is none.”