This Silence Isn't Easy.

I stare blankly at the hypodermic needle balancing between my thumb and index finger. I've become so used to this situation that it doesn’t faze me anymore.

I remember the first time I shot this wonderful stuff into my veins. I was a mere junior in high school; it was the one year anniversary of my mom’s death. My dad was out on another one of his many business trips, leaving me home all alone. Early that week I had purchased some crystal meth from one of the kids at my school. It wasn’t hard to determine which kids sold drugs and which didn’t. Sure I’d smoked a little weed and snorted some crack before this, but I had never injected anything into my body before.

I remember having several drinks before I was even close to thinking about sticking that needle in my arm. After a few more shots of Vodka I convinced myself I was ready.

I had set everything up before I started drinking, so all I had to do was stick the needle into my arm and push down on the plunger.

And that’s exactly what I did. I was so wasted that I could barely feel the pain in my arm.

So that’s what I did for the next week; drink, drink some more, then shoot up some meth. Good routine in my opinion.

Nowadays, I don’t even have to drink beforehand. All I do is get the meth into the needle, stick it in my arm, push down on that plunger, and feel the incredible rush of that stuff coursing through my veins.

And for almost one year I have been addicted to meth.
For almost two years my mother has been dead.
For almost four years I have been friendless.
And for almost two years ago I was in love with Alex Gaskarth.