[ WP ] The day after a suicide attempt

The sun streamed through my window, illuminating tiny particles of dust casually drifting towards my immobile body. The sounds of the street were muffled: a door slamming, somebody yelling, the revving of an engine as it peeled out down the road. 
 
 The ground was hard. I was cold. My head pounded and my mouth was dry. 
 
 I felt like shit. 
 
 For a while, I couldn ’ t move. My limbs still felt heavy, my mind still muddied from the blackout euphoria of the night before. *Was I really here? * 
 
 From the window, a cold gust of air meandered its way towards the floor, taking its time to wrap my body in its icy embrace. Though the chill wouldn ’ t let go, I was sweating. I had goosebumps, but my face was hot. My head was about to explode. 
 
 Fuck it. If I was still here, I wanted more drugs. Now. 
 
 I rolled onto my stomach and, for just a moment, rested my face against the hardwood floor. I took a deep breath and placed both palms against the ground, using all my strength to push myself to my knees. 
 
 Finally reaching my feet, I took a brief moment to survey my apartment. It was fucking trashed, as expected. Shards from a broken bottle lay strewn under my table. Chairs were knocked over, there was cereal all over the floor. Fucking cocoa puffs. All my windows were wide open, all of my books had been ripped off the shelf. 
 
 *Why am I here? * 
 
 My stomach rumbled, begging for food, protesting with sharp pangs. But I didn ’ t have money for food. I didn ’ t have money for anything. Even in this shitty town, with the shitty weather and the shitty people and the shitty houses, I couldn ’ t manage to save for shit. 
 
 Fuck, I ’ m such a piece of shit. 
 
 Stumbling into my room, I ripped open the bottom drawer of my dresser. I dug desperately through the clothes, checked in all the cracks for any white powder, any dropped pills, anything. But all I found was nothing. I needed a bump of H, a couple of Oxys or even just a fucking Xannie or two. Just something to get away from this place. Just something to ease my pain, make the aching go away. 
 
 But I took everything last night. Ate all the pills, drank all the booze. At first I was just trying to escape for the night, but after I was drunk enough, fucked up enough, I figured fuck it. I might as well escape forever. Who would miss me? What would I miss? Nothing. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 I shuffled to my front door, eased it open. I walked down the hallway of my apartment, bare feet thudding on the threadbare carpet. The walls smelled like must and cigarettes. 
 
 Fuck, I wish I had a cig. Anything. 
 
 I carried myself slowly, posture hunched. The two flights of stairs to Alonzo ’ s apartment were the two longest flights of stairs in my life. My entire body screamed, straining against my efforts. *Go lie down, you dumb fuck! * it screeched. *Why are you even trying to move? * 
 
 On the fifth floor, I stared at the numbers on the door, gold paint peeling. 326. I knocked, slow and deliberate. Three times. If Alonzo knew it was me, he would come to the door. He knew I was tied around his little finger. He owned me. He knew I had nothing. He knew. 
 
 After another three knocks and another three minutes, the door opened to a tall man, pale skin and thin lips. His dark eyes were sunken but sharp. His shaggy hair, even darker than his eyes, hung over his forehead. He surveyed me with a smirk, eyes travelling across my body. 
 
 My feet were bare, toes curled. I was cold, pale. My long hair was tangled in a greasy mess, falling over my face. Dark circles marred my eyes. Under my sweatshirt were lines of track marks, bruises and pinpricks travelling up and down my arms. I was broken. 
 
 “ Hey, man. ” I whispered, hoarse. “ You got anything? ” 
 
 His eyes narrowed, but his smirk widened. “ The question is, have you got anything? ” 
 I was silent and he knew. He knew what I had. The only thing I had, the only thing I could give him. 
 
 Without another word, he stepped back and I walked past him into his apartment. We walked into his room. I sat down on his floor as he cooked me a shot, prepared the rig. He tied my arm. Bringing the needle to my skin, he gave me bliss. I felt it spreading through my veins, pulsing through my body. My headache subsided and I felt warm. Cozy. Beautiful. 
 
 The world was beautiful. 
 
 I laid on his bed and he laid on top of me, pinning me down at the shoulders. Though he was rough, I was calm and still, soaking in every second of my bliss. He took me, took everything I had. I traded everything for this bliss. 
 
 Though I had nothing, in that moment, I felt like I had everything. 
 
 But when I left his apartment, when the world wasn ’ t so beautiful and the air felt cold once again, I knew I had lost. 
 
 All I had was nothing. 
 
 
 
 
 

