Friday, March 23, 2012:
I woke up at three AM with a needle sticking out of my arm. Another drug dream. They scare the hell out of me.
Why do I still have these dreams? Do I subconsciously still want to get high?
I may have said this before, but every time I stuck a needle in my arm, it was like a mini-near-death experience. It was like jumping across a thousand-foot deep chasm to win the lottery. In the back of my mind, I knew I might not make it, but the reward was too great to not chance it. Or so I thought.
I guess these dreams are a sort of post traumatic stress disorder. The worst part of it is that my brother, Brian, who overdosed ten years ago, is always there, always giving me the needle. It’s the only time he’s ever in my dreams.
And the needle’s always dull, or like last night, it’s not even a needle. It’s made of cork and I’m trying to force it through my tough skin into a vein.
So Brian hands me a new needle and I pull the plunger out and shoot the elixir into the new one, spilling some in the process.
Finally, it sinks smoothly into my skin, I see the blood register, and I push the plunger home, feeling a slight pressure in my vein. And I wake up, holding my breath.
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