[Regrets of Not being a Junky, 629 words, Genre: Drug Fiction]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
He lay down on his bed in his room. Staring up at the light that hung from the ceiling. Looking for peace in his soul where there was none to be found. Just a head-fuck full of regrets and woes to be counted among other pissings. That is to say he was alone now, more alone that he had ever been. And as he looked back on his life, to the place he was now. He hadn’t gotten anywhere. That is to say, he had moved around a lot. He had once thought that he was going places, going to be somebody, but that could be a handful of shit thrown up against the wall now. He had tried his best, aye, that much was true. Yet when he weighed up what he had achieved he had found his regrets more odd and unfortunate than most. That is because, he felt, that if he had made himself into a bigger piece of shit than he already was, he may have achieved something.
He found himself dwelling in regret of why he had not tried heroin when it was offered to him. Had not lived the life of reckless and wild regard for the sentiments of others. For those he knew that had. They seemed to have achieved something. They had a following of respect amongst their own cohorts where he had none. He had a room that sheltered him from the rain, which he paid monthly rent for that left him malnourished and in desperate need for love and affection where there was none to be given. Yet a drug addiction would have given him all the love and affection he required, synthetic love, but love still.
He could have done that. The junky dying in the gutter of society’s reaches could have been him and then there would be no time for regret and woe. Just a brain smashed against the pavement of life. Instead of now, where he lay, torturing himself in a cycle of repeated memories. He had survived the adolescence of drug abuse, he had survived the cesspool of his childhood, he had survived, he had survived… What good was survival for if there was no sense of glory or gratification at the end? Some sort of reward? Life is it’s own reward they would say. Yet, he had not been given anything. He had been given a room in which to isolate himself and dwell.
So he lay there, in his bed, daydreaming about how things could have been. How things could have been if he had been able to take that step and flush his life down the sewerage system of society. Friends now, he counted few, where he could have been admired for being a supreme piece of shit. Where now, he was just a retrograde piece of shit. Your regular, everyday run piece of shit that buys groceries once a week, masturbates daily and is swept up in a wave of self-pity and scorn.
In the end what did it matter? If he survived or flushed his life down the gutter. In survival, he regretted not flushing his life down the gutter and the pain was prolonged. The pain of existence. Nobody wanted to hear about his existential crisis anyway, they were too busy with their own.
He could have done it, could have done it all. Robbed people’s houses to get his next high. That was one of the options opened up to him in his life. One of those rare opportunities. Many people get opportunities; job opportunities, relationship opportunities. Being a junky was the opportunity that the universe had afforded him. He could have done that, that’s one thing that he could have done. But he fuckin’ blew it.