You're Gone

I think there was a point in time where my life was perfect. Where nothing bothered me and everything just seemed to go like it should. I sat there thinking about that time. It was so long ago. Such a distant memory. But it was a fond one, one that I always held onto. But it didn't matter anymore. Because those days were gone, and those were days I couldn't get back. Days I wouldn't get back. Days I could only remember when the chemicals would allow it. Because now that's all that really controlled me- the chemicals. Because they made me feel alive. Because they made me feel dead. Because they made me forget. And because they made me remember.

I remembered one of those days as I searched for a vein in my arm. They had started to collapse because of how much and how often I was injecting the poison into my veins. I could feel the warmth from that particular day on my skin and when I finally hit a vein and watched the blood mix with the meth before it all poured into my arm my skin burned. And all at once, I was eight years old again running in the park with my best friend. We were running to the swings as my eyes rolled into the back of my head. We were racing down the slides as I felt the slight feeling of euphoria course through me. I could hear the birds chirping and the dogs barking as I let the syringe slip through my fingers as my muscles relaxed. The memories coursed through my memory quickly; the images, sounds, and feelings so real it scared me. I forced myself to keep my eyes open because I thought if I closed them I would be lost in my thoughts forever. I made myself walk around because I thought if I sat still I would never be able to move again. I let a white pill slip down my throat as I heard the door close.

My eyes snapped up and I smiled widely at the sight of him. His normally styled and straight hair was stringy and matted to the top of his head and the sides of his face. His eyes- much like mine- were sunken in and dull looking, dark bags hanging under them heavily. His normally thin frame was now scary skinny and when he pulled his shirt over his head I could almost locate every single one of his ribs. He tossed two baggies in front of me, one full of crystals and the other filled with a powdery white substance. I smiled at him. He smiled back, his eyes vacant.

"I got a good deal," was all he said. I nodded as he dropped himself down on the couch next to me. I pushed my straw like blonde hair out of my eyes as I turned to face him.

"Oliver," I spoke softly, afraid someone would hear me through the walls of his apartment. The drugs were still coursing through me, and I could literally feel the blood moving through my veins as I spoke to him. I pushed his hair out of his eyes as well, leaning over to kiss the side of his chapped lips carefully. He moved his head to the side slightly, catching my lips full on. His lips were cracked and dry, but nothing phased me anymore. I wanted him. I needed him. Almost as bad as I needed the drugs. He was almost as addictive as they were. I craved his touch. And as his hand slowly crept up my shirt I felt fire beneath his fingertips. I arched my back and pressed myself closer to him, never wanting him to leave me again.

If I could just feel like this forever, everything would be okay. Because I wasn't eight anymore. Because I didn't go on the swings anymore. Because the only time I was in the park now was to sleep inside the tunnel on the jungle gym. Because I didn't ever feel as whole as I did when there were chemicals in my veins and his hands and lips were all over me. Because I couldn't even fucking remember when things started to get like this. And I was at a point where the lines between reality and daydreams were blurred.

He literally ripped my shirt from my body, clawing it off of me like an animal. He needed it just as badly. He needed me just as badly. We needed each other, really. Things weren't ever the same when we weren't together. When we were doing drugs. When we kept our hands to ourselves. I closed my eyes as he trailed his lips down my chest, his fingers ghosting over the outline of my bra. I let my own hands claw at his back roughly, my finger nails digging into his skin as I carved a road map to our desire. Nothing about the way we were touching each other was innocent. Nothing about either of us was innocent anymore. Somewhere something had gone terribly wrong and that point in my life where things were perfect slipped out of my fingers so easily it was hard to believe I once had a grasp on anything at all. But things were okay as my hand slid down into the front of his too tight jeans. And things were okay as he pushed my shorts down my thighs.

Because this all made sense. And nothing else did anymore.