Page 83 of The Addict

More than ever, I detested the way my tears fell. I felt like that lonely boy again, helpless and pulled away from the imaginary, perfect world that all kids seem to love and thrive in. Instead, I was constantly living in a nightmare. The misery was continuous, whether I was asleep or not.

The cravings were still there. But without my joints or drinks, I was more focused on experiencing the feelings that assaulted my body.

Which was fucking gross. And complicated.

The aftereffects of losing my source of pleasure were causing me to hate myself. More so than I already did.

I was never going to be a happy little soul.

I was never going to understand the true meaning of love…

…or innocence.

The word virtue, much like the word “father”, meant nothing to me. I heard it, I laughed. No one, not even Damian or Alex, could ever understand the pain I endured every single day. It was my curse to live with, knowing that I could never love someone. I wasn’t capable of it. I just wanted what I could get my hands on, something that could make me feel. Pain or pleasure, it didn’t matter. I craved the presence of another, for the warmth of another human body. It fed my delusion that I wasn’t alone, even though in my heart and mind, I knew the truth.

I was utterly alone.

When I was with someone, I could fight through my past, concentrate on desire. I was no longer locked in that dark little room. I wanted to hurt, on my own terms.

Hell, I want to bleed. I can take it.

Since the day the abuse started, this mindset was ingrained in my mind. My body was an object that many wanted, so I ensured it was used for its intended purpose. It gave me some disturbed pleasure knowing that others wanted me, and that on any given day I could reel in whomever I pleased.

Fuck, smoke and drink. This would keep the sickness away.

Fuck, smoke, drink, repeat.

I remembered the day when my crazy cycle finally started to feel normal.

I had just had sex with a woman I found in a club, and before my body could even begin to register the actions, I picked up a half empty bottle of Bacardi and downed it.

The sickness never came. The guilt never came. All caring just… ceased.

So, I drank more. And when the alcohol poisoning stopped helping, I bought weed.

And crack.

I smoked the drugs and was surprised to find that I couldn’t even remember the sexual acts anymore. I’d wake up not knowing the person’s name, send them on their merry way, and then drink until I crashed out on my bed.

I hadn’t realized my addiction had gotten that bad.

Until now.

My tears finally stopped, the streaks on my cheeks leaving my face cold. I rose from the bed, determined to leave the house despite the bed sheets clinging to my skin. The walls of my room felt closer than before, like they were leaning in, pressing against my chest with invisible hands. The air was stale and thick, too thick to breathe. I wanted out. Now.

As I descended the stairs, the anger I held for my life sat heavy in my gut. Everything I had planned had unraveled before my eyes. This mess I’d created was now tangled up with bits of college, the looming possibility of rehab, and then there was... nothing. Just a blank space I didn’t care enough to fill.

Or maybe…

Delane?

For some reason, her face kept popping into my mind. She looked disappointed in me. I couldn’t help but wonder why I cared so much.

DELANE

Maybe the name was common?

I wanted to slap myself when I entered the house, locking the door securely behind my arrival. How could this happen to me? Was my luck this bad?