Sunday Morning

Wake up.

That’s what they say, but they never want it.
I smile to myself as I know now that nobody can do anything. I’m alone and that’s just how I want it to be. My heartbeat is drumming in my ears as I swallow to try and rid myself of the sensation. My forearm is stinging from the hole I tore there. The hypodermic needle is now lying on the floor. Heroin. As my hand falls from the side of my bed and limply points to the offensive looking object, I feel the blood surge downward with it. Only a healthy mind could block out the feel of blood flow, and a poisoned mind had to endure it.

This is nothing how I pictured it to be. The way overdoses are glamorised in films is insulting compared to the inevitable death I now face. The darkness calls me forward to an embrace I now seek, and welcomes me in with a gentle smile. The record player spins The Velvet Underground, a slowly turning world, flowing into another. While I fall into a third.

I feel my breath becoming shorter, causing my body to spasm slightly. I smile at the movement, a strange, unfamiliar sensation. I turn onto my side, now looking out of the window and laugh at the irony of the music now playing. As the world wakes up I am slipping away from it. Now. The presence of death is here now and I let it take me away.

I won’t wake up.

"Sunday morning and I'm falling.
I've got a feeling I don't want to know.
Early dawning, Sunday morning.
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago."