Addiction

Bruised. Dripping. Blood.

Red, as the colour of his bloodshot eyes. Sticky. Like honey overflowing over the bottle.
He grunts. Struggles for breath. His eyesight is blurred. Dizziness. He tries to get up.

Darkness.

His eyelids feel heavy, as if he has just snorted up a pound of coke. The smell of vomit enters his nasal passageway. He gags.

"What.. why am I here? What have I done?" He thinks to himself. He places his veiny, flesh eaten hands onto the cold, hard ground. His almost skeletal like fingers look like they are on the verge of breakage, finger, by finger. His legs, in the same condition as his hands, struggle to find a sturdy place to get his balance. His feet slip at first, he gets his balance. He is up.
Feeling like he wants to faint, he wobbles to what appears to be a door, as his eyesight is still blurred, he can't picture anything around him. He uses his hands, to feel his way around. A door handle. He turns it.

Light.

“What have you done to yourself man? You still have a life to live for.” He walked. “Where are you going? You can cure this, you can cure this!”
“Leave me alone. It’s over. I’m over.”

Darkness.

He awakens. The rhythmic sound of beeping replayed in his ears. A bright light blinds him so much; he has to keep his eyes closed.

“You’re lucky, you could have died”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital”

The tension in the room grew.

After 5 minutes of uncomfortable silence, he flinged the white, crimpled covers off of his bony, skeletal figured body. The wires and tubes that were tightly attached to his skin had enough strength to pull him to the floor. He squirmed on the floor, trying to get himself together. He got his hand on one of the tubes attached to his arm. He pulls. He screams. He bleeds. The beeping that first sounded when he awakened has escalated.

Louder. Higher. Faster.

His arm, covered in blood, reaches onto the crimpled white sheets of his bed. His eyes roll to the back of his head. The nurse, standing in shock, faints.

He pushes himself up with all of his might. He’s up. He stumbles to the door, opens it. He places his hands, which have now changed to a very deep purple, on the cracked, re-painted hospital walls. His head is looking down at the marble, glossed floors. His feet, at a pace as if he’s just learning how to walk again.

Everything came to a stand still. His breathing became slower. He stopped moving. He places his hands by his hands. He closes his eyes.

Flat line.