



Anyway I fell asleep or passed out or something. The klonopin didn't help. I woke up in a pool of blood with a needle in my hand. Did I cut my wrist? Did I hit an artery? There is no water in the tub. I cracked my fucking head trying to get out of the tub. I feel it now, the pounding and I'm seeing the droplets lead up to my shoulder. I suppose the beer didn't help either. I wish there was someone to call to help me but I had dead bolted the door. Ha! The irony is not lost here.





When I reach up to touch my temple, I feel the wound has started forming a scab. I guess I must have reached to empty out the water and hit my head and knocked myself unconscious. I hear a pounding, a pounding in my head. I hear a pounding.





"Bitch, what the fuck are you doing in there...?" I hear the night manager scream affectionately. He charges people five dollars a head to come in here and smoke their shit.





I pull myself up. The world starts spinning.





I weakly reply "fuck you Archie. I paid already. Give me five mins."





I feel the chills roll up my spine. I cracked my head and I am fucking dope sick. I never got the hit. Another start to another fucked up day.

I woke up one morning in a pool of blood. Well, it wasn't actually morning it was still the middle of the night, I had set off down the hall of my hotel to use the bathtub. I needed a place with bright lights so I could get my hit. I would soak my body in the water. Then I would let it drain out then search for a vein. This was the only time people were not pounding on the door to use the bathroom. It had no toilet but it did have a lock. People would congregate in here in groups of threes and fours to pass the crack pipe in peace. The room was a hot box with no windows and no natural light. The would get spooked and come out in a puff of smoke like an exit from the stages of hell.I must have been up for a few days or maybe it just felt like this to me. The days blending into night back into days. I was selling heroin at the time. It had seemed like a dream job minus people trying to cut my throat to get me drugs. The dealers used to send out four packages. The Mexican runners had one a piece. Then there was two dope fiends that would serve the others. The deals were made fast and furious. You only had three hours tops to make all your sales before these guys were packing it in to go home. The street dealers had girlfriends and families out in the East Bay.