Painless

I've seen pain before, many times. People get hurt or achey and complain, make faces. It looks distressing. When I see pain like that, I'm glad I can't feel it. Sometimes I'm not so glad. One time I was thrown in a pond by my cousins at a wedding party, and I scratched almost all of one side of my leg against a rock, and I never realised until I almost passed out from blood loss. It was a bad cut. I ended up in hospital and everything. I have a speech problem now. My tongue is the wrong shape, so it doesn't fit to parts of my mouth properly. That's because I've chewed it. I've bitten and chewed until it's become this nasty, lumpy thing. It's swollen too. There's not room for much else in my mouth, so I don't like kissing with tongues, or having my temperature checked, or eating and drinking. It's all such a chore.

Because I don't feel pain, I never know when to stop. I've been known to walk around with broken limbs like everything's perfectly normal. I drink and drink and drink until I throw up and pass out, then I wake up with a hangover, drink some water to quench my thirst and drink some more alcohol. I've taken drugs, too. I've used needles on my arms for hits, and all I feel when the needle goes in is a cold thing. It's unpleasant when it shifts through my inners, but I love a good high. I've smoked, and it leads to coughs and cravings. Okay, yes, I'm a smoker.

I think I'm cursed. None of my parents had a gene for this, it was me. I mutated. I become super skinny or almost bleed to death or pass out without any clue anything is wrong, and the day I was introduced to crack and weed didn't help. I've always loved the high, but obviously there are consequences.

I don't much care for my own health, because I can't tell the difference between healthy David and unhealthy David. It's all just David, and fair's ware when I have a fever or throw up, because that's how I know I have a bug. Otherwise sickness and pain don't bother me. I am David, nerves of steel, if nerves at all!

I see my future. A bloated corpse, surrounded by syringes and empty pill boxes, not a single friend to find me. That's how I've been taught drug addictions go, and I'm okay with it. It's the path I've led myself down, so not much can be done.

Then I see my little brother along the way. Blonde, he is. Curly blond hair, like an angel, and although no-one ever asked him to, he acts as if he's my keeper. He follows me around and tries to make sure I don't get hurt. Kind of like a puppy. He stresses out about me, and I stress out about him getting stressed out. I just wish he would focus on his own problems rather than on me. He says he wants to do genetic research when he's older to help people like me, and any kids or grandkids I might have. A kind of sickening yet sweet commitment. Sickly sweet.

The thing is, I don't know it, but I'm a wreck. My skin is mottled and pale, I can have vile moodswings at times. I'm tired and sick a lot. I can't count the number of breakdowns I've had, but then those are far too common in my dorm. LSD and ecstasy, those are my favourites, and weed. Mickey always has a good supply of the good stuff, and a good drink to wash it down with. I haven't been sleeping properly for over a year, but I don't care. Considering my appetite is low to start with, since I never even feel hungry, I've ended up in hospital due to starvation before, since the drugs just take over. Because I don't feel pain, because I never know when to stop, I've gotten so deep in this world that I'm trapped down a hole. There are no ways of climbing out, I cry, curled up on my bed, alone. In the dark. Mickey pushed drugs on us and I couldn't stop. "Try this, David, try this!", so much wasted money, so much wasted life. I get so hot during the day, even now, in winter. I had to take off my shirt outdoors the other day...and let people see my chest.

I hate my body. I absolutely hate it. I have the mark of a drug addict all over me. I've made myself this ugly, unlovable wreck of a man, and as much as I try and blame others, try and blame the people I buy this stuff off, the people who introduced me to it, in the end I have to admit this is my fault. They made me a school prefect before all this happened, and that's another thing I've lost. I don't know physical pain, but I certainly know emotional pain.

I know the pain of looking in the mirror and hating everything about yourself, right down to your clouded blue eyes and the way your freckles stand out on your pale cheeks. I know the pain of being so tired, but not being able to sleep. The pain of having to use heroin as a night cap. I know the pain of jittery, clumsy hands and feeling embarrassed whenever you have to use them. I know the pain of looking around and not being able to tell what is reality and what is illusion. I can't be hurt by a needle, pinch or punch, but I can be hurt psychologically, and that's already happened. The thing is, withdrawal can kill you, and so it scares me, so I can't stop. The cravings become intense and I feel so short of breath sometimes, but I have to keep on with this or else. I want out! I don't like this any more! It isn't just a harmless high, I don't like walking on the clouds, not if it's like this! I want my mum! I don't want to be alone! I want to tear my shirt and scream for help. Help me, help me, help, help, help! But no-one listens to the cry of an addict. No-one ever listens. Even if they did, they wouldn't understand. Because of my mottled tongue, because they'd tell me to just stop, but it isn't that simple, because they aren't the ones addicted, they don't know what it's like. They don't know, they don't know, they don't ever know, and I hope, I so hope they never do.