Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25809221-20160313071129

After a very long hiatus, I'm back with a new story. This was originally an assignment with a two page limit, so it's a bit more condensed then I would have liked. I've done my best to clean it up and edit, but I'd love to have your guy's opinions to make it the best it can be. BTW, I'm a bit flattered that my suggestion of adding (unreviewed) to an unnoticed thread is still being used over a year later.

That aside, enjoy. Give me your thoughts, opinions, point out any flaws, anything you can think of that could help improve my writing. I'm a bit rusty, so I hope it's not terrible.

Tuesday marks four weeks since I got high. Four weeks since I decided to kick my addiction. I don’t know for sure what made me decide to, but I think I just realised I didn’t want my life to be a waste. It was four weeks of hell on Earth, but I pulled through. Every day of it was spent writhing in pain, begging for a needle, or maybe just something to end the suffering. My roommate locked me in the room at my own request. My resolve lasted three days. The fourth, I banged at the door, screaming to be let out, to get high one last time. I begged and promised and lied, anything to get out and give up. He only opened it to give me food and water. The entire ordeal felt more like four years than four weeks. It was on day twenty-four that the cravings finally started to subside, and another week later, he finally let me out. In the end, I’m glad. My life is starting to get back in line. I’ve reconnected with family that had long since excommunicated me, too. I guess a deadbeat addict isn’t the kind of person you’d want at family gatherings.

I started paying rent for the months I’ve spent bumming on his couch. I’m just glad he put with with my shit. Not many would stand by a thirty-year-old heroin junkie. He’s a damn good friend. He even cut me a deal, agreeing to let me stay with him if I keep paying rent and keep clean. I got all cleaned up today, a haircut and everything. I look pretty damn good, except for the sunken eyes and gaunt face. The manager was another old friend, a high school buddy, and gave me the job despite my past hobbies. I don’t think I’d be able to make it if it wasn’t for all the support from friends and family. Now and then I still get cravings. They aren’t a fraction of what they used to be, but I should have guessed it wouldn’t be that easy. I push them to the back of my head and fill my mind with work. I’m looking for a second job. If I’m awake, I can be working, and if I’m working I can stay focused. Honestly, the hardest part lately is hiding the scars. My left arm feels numb today. I’m not sure why, but frankly, it’s kiind of scary. I remember hearing that it’s a sign of a heart attack or something. If it doesn’t go away, I’ll go to a doctor, despite my lack of insurance. I told Jake about it, but he told me not to worry too much about it; that I probably just slept on it wrong. The numbness is gone, but it’s replaced something worse. My entire arm scratches and hurts, like I’m being stung by a wasp over and over again. I called in sick from work. I refuse to take any painkillers, though. I don’t trust them. I can’t trust them. Jake has been at work all day. I’m alone and it hurts. My arm is bleeding, but I don’t know how, I haven’t moved from the couch since this morning. Pinpricks of black blood drip down my arm. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared if I call an ambulance I’ll be arrested or I’ll screw over Jake somehow after all he’s done for me. I’m trying to get a closer look at it now. The shower is washing away the blood, but my arm is covered in hundreds of tiny wounds. I panic, slip, and everything goes black with a soft crack. When I come to, my head aches and my vision is blurred with my own blood. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. The shower is running, but the water's gone cold. I snap back to reality. My arm. The pain is still there, but duller. I wipe my face clean, and take a look, expecting the same small holes. Instead, I’m greeted with dozens and dozens of tiny, red spines poking through my flesh. I’m horrified, and confused. However, I catch a glimpse of familiar surgical silver through the crimson and I realize they’re needles. I puke and pass out again. When I wake up, I don’t have the energy to move. Instead, I just sob. I don’t know how long I’ve lain here. Jake finds me a pathetic mess. I’m wet and soaked in my own blood and vomit. I try to explain what happened, and explain my arm. But he just looks at me like I’m insane, and I see the disappointment in his eyes. I wave my limp, bloodied limb at him, a blubbering mess. The needles poking from my arm are so obvious, how can he not see them? He threatens to 9-11, and my eyes go wide. He can’t call the cops. Not after how far I’ve come. I beg him to listen to me, but he just screams at me. I can’t believe Jake would betray me. When he reaches for his cellphone, I jump on him, and in my panic I manage to overpower him. I punch him hard in the jaw, but he doesn’t stay down. I swing again and again and again. I hear something crack but I’m not sure if it’s his face or my hand; probably both. Finally, he goes limp. Exhausted, nude, and terrified, I drag myself to the couch and caress my broken wrist. The exhaustion hits me like a wave, overriding any pain or fear. I close my eyes, and shut down. When I wake, Jake is still limp and bloodied on the hallway floor. A sick feeling floods my gut. I go to wake him, but he doesn’t respond. I slap him, but he doesn’t respond. I start to panic. I desperately fill a bowl with ice water and splash his face, but still nothing. I make a pathetic attempt at CPR, but I start to give in the the truth when I force myself to check his pulse. Jake is dead. My stomach drops like an anvil. How did this happen? What went wrong? A week ago, my life was finally piecing itself back together. I never wanted any of this. I loved Jake for all he’d done for me, and this is how I repay him? The needles in my arm mock me with a glint of silver light; like it’s a joke. I punch myself in the arm in an impotent fury, but to my surprise there’s no sharp, stabbing pain like I expect. I touch my left arm gingerly, and to my surprise it’s smooth. I even feel the familiar scars of my past sins. Instead of spines, I feel dozens horizontal cuts across on my arm and understand Jake’s anger and disappointment, although I can’t remember how they got there. I stare in abject horror at the needles protruding from my arm. Have my eyes been lying to me? I shudder, and break down into sobs. I killed my best friend over a goddamn hallucination. I pick up Jake’s phone, call 9-11, and wait. 