Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25209034-20150530215849

Alone. Sitting here thinking to myself how could the happen, how could this be. Alone waiting for someone who isn't even real. Then I hear the door open its just the bitter wind of a Novembers night. It whispers in my hear but I don't want to hear what its saying. I get the needle filled with the essential to survive my situation, heroin. I slowly inject into my arm to relive the pain of denied hopes and crushed dreams. The needle penetrates my swollen, scarred,rotting arm and helps me become better.

"A man with a house on the street with a Lamborghini that would be neat.

But instead I am here stuck on the streets with the rotting corpses of friends I once knew who made the same mistake as me and got addicted to heroin. Their corpses rot in the shack of shit and piss I have to call home. They haunt my soul telling me not to but I don't care. I'm already dead the moment I took the first needle I was hooked by the false promises of the massive highs of euphoria but only to be rocked by the lows of depression and wows as the reality of my situation sinks in.

There is only one thing to do for me and my problems end them on a trip so high I'll never reach the ground again. So I get the cold, manky, infected needle and load it with heroin and slowly slide it across my neck. I only feel pain for a agonising mile second before I slip away. I may be gone but the man I was the man of my dreams dead long before me.

DON'T EVER TAKE HEROIN. This is based on a true story  