I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...

It’s easy to see why Jeremiah thinks he gave me all this withdrawal stuff, like it’s a cold he could just pass on. He just gave me a connection, ,ore like an exciting business opportunity then a disease really. He’s about as responsibly for my current, shaking and vomiting, state as the razorblade company is for my attempted suicide, except unlike the razorblade company he didn’t gain anything. It’s proof that good intentions only lead to guilty consciences.

It all started simply enough… well you know how it ALL started, but this little closed incident started pretty simple. I saw Jeremiah pop a pill, my addictive vindictive personality got jealous.

I just woke up, and the last thing I saw is the first thing I think about. Jeremiah, he’s sitting against the wall, fast asleep. It’s dark outside my barred windows, and I can tell I slept through the day. Poor Jeremiah.

Everything… Everything still burns. My hands aren’t shaking as bad anymore, but every time I try to move an arm, a leg, my neck, anything, it feels like the muscles are tearing.

I can’t help but think about the lecture my weight training teacher at school gave, how you got stronger by tearing down muscle fibers and rebuilding them back stronger. The oddly shaped man who I can only assume used to juice, despite every lecture about how it was immoral cheating. His arms and legs were to short for his torso and the giant beer gut that stuck out of it and would got in the way every time he attempted to perform a squat. The beer gut looked so out of place next to his toned arms and legs, the way it stuck out every time he stretched a little because of the ridiculously tight shirts he always wore.

I start to laugh, but stop as my lungs experience that same tearing feeling. Looking at sleeping Jeremiah, none of this is his fault.

I walked up to him after he popped that pill and asked,

“So what was that?” I had an evil, sadistic, smile on my mouth after I asked it.

“Oxycodone.” He replied, embarrassed, having just gotten over everything with Emily, or at least recovered enough to pretend he had.

“Damn! How’d you get your hands on that in here?” I asked, as I remembered the pack of cigarettes he had and wondered if he still had any. The weird part is that was like, my second cigarette ever. I probably shouldn’t be craving another yet.

“I have a guy.” He said with a sly grin.

“Wha!?” I asked, like a real asshole. The cravings hadn’t been a problem when there wasn’t even a chance of me getting any, but faced with an opportunity I couldn’t stop thinking about how much better they made everything feel.

“He didn’t want to tell me of course, but I bugged him and bugged him. I half thought he was being selfish and trying to hog all the fun for himself or something… I kinda feel bad about that part now… but I begged and pleated nonetheless until he finally told me.

The guy was actually committed here, it’s a scam he and his girlfriend figured out when they realized what the drugs we all take here actually go for. So, he goes from place to place and fakes psychiatric relapses into insanity every time they start running low on cash. When he’s inside he just trades people for their meds.

His girlfriend apparently sneaks all this stuff in and out for him, she brings in various drugs, and sneaks them out.

The way they do this is actually pretty cool; no matter how fucked up what they do is, the way they do it is like a spy movie.

The trick is, cans of hairspray. Once you open up the metal container, you can hide a lot of highly addictive things inside. The metal is thick enough that the x-rays and scanners or whatever they have here can’t read what’s inside it. No hospital is going to restrict your amount of hair spray. So what? The guys vain, no therapist is going to tell you not to look good.

Jeremiah tells me all of this, because he thinks it should take me awhile to save up enough pills to get much of anything. That would totally be true if I had been taking my pills in the first place.

So I take my stockpile of pills, and I go talk to this guy, I figured out I’d been here 9 days at the point, because of how many pills I had, 34, 2 every morning, 2 every night, and then 2 from that morning. I wasn’t expecting much, but I didn’t tell the guy that.

He says his name is Raptor… partly because of the mental disorder he pretends he has, and I’m guessing partly so nobody has a name to give to the police. Not to mention he’s probably a big enough douchebag that he thinks it sounds cool.

Anyway, he takes a close look at my pill, then he checks his notes, and even if his name is Raptor, he smiles like a snake. That’s when I know I hit it big.

“Because you’re a first timer,” he says, “I’m going to give you a sweet deal.” I know if I plan to come back, I can probably negotiate the same deal again. “What’s your poison?” He asks.

“D-Do you have any Percocet or Adderol?” I ask, a little nervous.

“You bet I do.” He says and grins. You bet I do sounds a little weird coming from a guy named Raptor. Were in his room by the way; he reaches underneath his mattress and pulls out a duffel bag. I can see in as he looks through, it’s filled with pill bottles and bags. The bags are filled with powders that have to be coke, white caked rocks that must be heroin or crack, and little bags of crystal meth. I feel small time faced with these big boy drugs. “oooo, so sorry don’t have any Adderol.” He says, “But I do ha-“

“Yea, yea Dextroamphetamine is cool.” I say, confident and proud I’d done my homework. “amd I don’t give a rat’s ass whether it’s Percocet or Oxycodone.” I go on. I felt like such a badass.

Then, one at a time, he throws me two pill bottles. Full.

“Square trade?” He asks, and I nod in excitement. At ten bucks a pill usually, I’ve never had this much Oxy in my life. And the amphetamines? I usually just stole those from my dad, he’s been taking them for legitimate ADD since he was my age.

With both pockets full and rattling slightly as I walked out, I signal Jeremiah, who was waiting outside, to follow me.

None of this is his fault… Even in pain and desperate for someone else to blame I can’t pin this on him.