by Unknown
There was only him. He was the Holy Trinity, or was it the junk that now flowed through his veins? Was there even a God? Bring me your tired and writhing masses. Bring those wretched sinners to kneel at the altar of forgiveness and taste the blood of Christ. If God were real, would he allow someone to suffer as he had? The power of Christ heals and pays for all. Bring me your broken, your tired. Bring to me your humbled willing servants. Kneel before your God and suck his holy cock. Swallow his forgiveness as it races down your throat. The sins are now cleaned by the spunk of God.
If he were Jesus, would it be others who worshiped at his feet? He had read somewhere that everyone was God. He was the patron saint of junkies. He was the high end of low, and on a bad night he was so low that no one could save him. On those nights he would hide in his closet and just rock back and forth and feel the need intensify. That need made everything real. It showed him that he was alive, and not one of the walking dead that carried around their excuses in bags of regret, tied with empty promises and excuses. There were so many promises and tears of shame. He would like to say that he wasn’t one of them but each time he looked at himself in a mirror he would see the word “liar” spread across his forehead. They were all liars. They were all dying but didn’t know it. Maybe they did know it, but just didn’t care. They were the walking dead, cities full of junkies that were too fucked up to realize that they were already dead. They just hadn’t had the sense to fall down yet. The word written in blood on his forehead was the only truth he knew, or even cared to acknowledge. It made him feel real and reminded him of just who, and what, he had become.
If God were real, he would tell him to go fuck himself and curse him while the needle wobbled in his arm. If God were real, he would laugh at him and call him a liar, there was no forgiveness. There was no cross, or even a way into heaven. It was all bullshit to make death easier to face, but he had been so close to death that he could still smell it in his nostrils. It was the stench of rotting flesh and moldering earth. He had seen the corpses reaching out for him, waiting to yank him into the abyss. God had promised eternal damnation to those who sinned and blasphemed against him, but he was already in a hell that he built for himself. God is love and wants to rape you and leave you face down, ass up in a puddle of your own vomit, as the drugs course through your weakened veins. You nod off as God rams his holy cock deep inside you, but the numbness is so welcoming, you barely feel the sting as he thrusts himself into you. Death was a release. Death was the only thing that could set him free. When you welcome death, what else is there to fear? Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I am evil. I am all that you fear, yet want to be.
He once knew a woman with flaming red hair and pale wide hips. Her pussy was the altar of sacrifice, and he had worshiped at it when he wasn’t so high that he didn’t even know his name. Was the altar enough to save his blackened soul? What was he sacrificing? His flesh? There had been a time when sex had been enough to drive away the demons, but soon the demons drove her away just like they drove away everyone else. It was becoming a parade of the lost and forgotten, and he was the grand marshal, but instead of a baton, he was holding a needle filled with the purest junk he could find. They were all that was left, and in the end they were all that mattered. He would crucify himself as a sacrifice to the demons, and in the end all they wanted in return was his soul. He would gladly give it to receive a release from his pain and suffering. That sweet release was worth losing his soul. What was a soul anyway? It wasn’t important.
The downward spiral came quickly for him, and like most people in his predicament he was among the lost and maybe even the rejected. The rejection was his own doing. He could try and lay the blame elsewhere, but there was no one left to blame. He had driven them all away and in the end, he was totally alone. The rejection he felt was created by himself out of what? Fear? Weakness? Maybe it was the need to dull some sort of pain that existed in some fucked up part of his head. Instead of dealing with it like a man, he went to a church he had created inside of a seedy motel in a part of town that smelled faintly of rotten eggs. It was a part of town where the desperate converge and find like-minded people that have nothing left to live for. It was in this part of town where Peter made his home among the whores, the homeless, and the fellow junkies. It was a fitting place to bring his church of self-destruction. Every night he would nod off to the sound of gunshots and the sounds of whores being raped. It was his lullaby. It was the hymn of the lost and broken.
The church of self-destruction was a congregation of one. Here he could be alone with his selfishness. There’s no God here, and the collection plate only accepts flesh. The church itself was fueled by self-loathing and weakness. Offer up your prayers for a fix. Oh wretched sinner, pray for release, and give me an “amen.” On your knees sinner, take the needle as your communion wafer. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. The needle dulls the pain, and Peter nods off in the bathtub. For now the services are over, and the bliss he feels takes away all the doubt and hatred. There was a time when he hated himself. He hated what he had become, but eventually he accepted his fate, and his love for the needle became the one thing he could rely on.
The needle was the answer to life’s mysteries. When the needle went in, nothing mattered anymore. All those people he left behind no longer mattered. They were just ghosts that faded into the background, but when he slept he could no longer ignore them. They taunted him; they beckoned for him to join them in the mist. The mist was warm and inviting. They whispered that the mist would take away all of his pain and suffering. All he had to do was join them. Submit fully to the darkness and all will be well. The darkness is warm and inviting. In the darkness, he can see people he had left behind, and they are all smiling and beckoning for him to join them. It would be so easy. All he has to do is say, “yes.”
In the bathtub is where he sits. It’s the only place he feels comfortable. Outside his room life goes on, but in here, there is no time. There are no days, or even weeks. Peter has no idea how long he’s even been in the bathroom. The only time he emerges is when he needs more junk to drive away thought and need. The world no longer offers him anything that he finds worthy. Life moves on its own while he nods off in a bathtub with a needle close by. The needle is an extension of who he had become. Without the needle he is no one, he is nothing. God may have abandoned him along with all of his friends and family, but the needle has remained loyal. It’s all he has left. The needle loves him, and in the church of self-destruction it’s become his only savior. The bathtub has become his bed and the toilet is close by just in case he needs to vomit. The nice thing is that in order to vomit, you would need food or a drink and Peter can’t remember the last time he’s had either. Answering the question of how long he’s been in the bathtub is a difficult question to answer due to time no longer being relevant. Time has no meaning here and even if it did it wouldn’t really matter. When you’re nodding off in the bathtub, time isn’t all that important.
There are memories that occasionally filter through like a film running backward. People that were but are no longer. Convulsing, and foaming at the mouth. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Skin turning blue, the needle lying next to a body slowly becoming the color of a Smurf. Where, O Death Is Your Victory? Where, O death is your sting? Is there a victory in the death of the junkie? As you fuck the lifeless corpse of a junkie whore there are no morals. Do you keep pumping away so you can cum inside of her non-responsive cunt or do you stop so you can bring her back around to use another day? Even if she does survive so what? What does she have to live for? Another quick fuck in a Burger King bathroom so she can get high again? Is being a cum receptacle better than death? Take this cock you stupid whore, you take it and like it. He had once sucked a dick for coke. When you’re free falling into the abyss there can be no pride. You take that dick, and pray that you don’t puke once that semen hits your tongue.
Pride is for those who have full lives ah
ead of them. Strength is for the ignorant. You end up face down in an alley with men fucking you in the ass just so you can get high again. He has come a long way from being a wide eyed innocent kid to a lifeless junkie. A corpse without a soul. All he can remember is the life with drugs and can’t remember the life without. His parents may as well have been nonexistent, He didn’t come from the womb at all. He came into the world in a balloon clutching a needle. What would happen when the veins collapse and his cock no longer takes his gift? When he stopped finding suitable veins in his arms and legs he began shooting the junk into his worthless cock. O, how the mighty have fallen. Was there even a life where everything was bright and sunny? There was a show he had seen once called Leave It To Beaver. That was how he imagined life should be.
How long would it take before the Beaver started sucking dick for heroin and fucking dead hookers? Would we ever see an episode where the Beaver nods off behind the wheel of a car and plows into a tree? On television, life was so much simpler. Life was full of canned laughter and simplicity. Could life be achievable and functional without a balloon of heroin? Did women go to proms and date men who didn’t beat them and fuck them afterwards? What was it like to live in the suburbs? All he could see was the faded pink tile lining the bathroom and just beyond his line of vision was a shadow that could in fact be the angel of death. He nods off again and feels the warmth escape his body. He wakes up long enough to try and stand, but his legs have decided to fuck him over. He ends up slumping back down, and once again he has just enough strength to shoot more of the life blood into his veins.
Is there a mother and father? The Holy trinity of sanity had given themselves over to the demons of debauchery. Twisting, turning into the never. Life rolls on, and he has become comfortable sitting in a puddle of his shit. His life is shit, so it only makes sense to sit in it as well. When was the last time he has eaten? He needs to get up and figure out what there is to eat, but the warm bliss has taken over, and he nods off in his bathtub coffin. It was fitting that his final resting place would in fact be a bathtub. It was cozy and safe. Everything he needed was right here in this room. It was great place to hide and be alone. When there were people coming in and out of the motel room, the bathroom became his only safe refuge. It kept the dead and dying outside of his vision. Were there people still out there? He tried to remember, but it was all a blur. It seemed as if there might be. Were they still alive?
Try and remember anything, Paul tried but it was all blurry as if he were looking through a thick pane of glass. There were no memories, no pain, no emotion. All that mattered was not feeling. Shooting the heroin into his flaccid cock was all that mattered. It was his universe and in the church of self-destruction it was important to forego everything but love of self, and a neglect of others. It was important to fade out, and then burn out in a flame of suicidal recklessness. Was there ever a time when he cared about anyone? Did anyone ever love him? It wasn’t possible. He was unlovable and without the drugs he was just a non-person. Background noise that no one pays any attention to. The only friend he had was the needle. That was his only the only thing he cared about. There were no happy memories. There were thoughts at all really. It was all one big blur that seemed to end when he nodded off and then awakened again sweaty and panicked from the lack of drugs.
What would it feel like to love someone else beside himself? Is love of self a sin? What is sin? The TV Gods tell him there is no God, and the deeper that he slips into his own destruction, he falls prostate to his addiction and offers up his bleeding arms to show his love and allegiance. “Am I worthy? Am I worthy enough to be saved by the bastard saints that watch over my wretched body? Can I be saved now?” There is never an answer. Is salvation forthcoming? Can he be saved without a soul? Did he ever have a soul? What exactly is a soul if all you know is selfishness and self-loathing? The TV Gods tell him that he must love himself, but he hated himself, and most of all he hated what he had become, but who was he before? He didn’t know. There were flashes of skin and morbid laughter.
“Do you love me?” A voice asks from the mist. He tries to answer, but he can’t find the words. It’s all a buzzing that sounds like a nest of yellow jackets have taken residence in weary vocal chords. Through the mist he can see the decaying corpse of a woman who looks vaguely familiar. A halo of flies are delicately placed on her head, and when she opens her mouth, maggots pour out. A fat one crawls across her cheek looking for dead skin. Her eyes melt inside their sockets forcing blood to pour and mix with her ruined eyeballs. “Say you love me. We are the dead. You and I are one. I want to hear you say it. Will you fuck me? I am yours, and you are mine. I am your sick queen of depression. Love me!”
There is no love in his heart. All he knows is the numb. He can’t remember being alive. All he knows is feeling the cold embrace of the numb. Her body is melting. He can see her flesh melt like candle wax. “We are the dead.” The world was an ashtray, a field of mass graves for those who don’t even realize that they’re dead. The world is full of the walking wounded just looking for a soul to suck dry. There is no Heaven. Hell is all there is for the dead and dying. The junkies fill the gutters, their blood falls like rain from a lacerated sky. The lost and broken stand outside his door waiting for him to walk outside and save them. He could be their junkie savior if he could just feel his legs. He would perform miracles. Bring the dead back to life, turn sand into heroin and save his wretched soul from whatever judgment that he was headed for. We are the dead in need of a healing. Touch me leper Jesus, heal the dead, save the sick and condemn the righteous for their sins among the weak and discarded.
Would Jesus hold him and cradle him? Would he inject the heroin just to save him from dying? We are the dead. That’s a phrase that has weight and meaning. Fuck you and all of your hope. Fuck all of our mothers and fathers for not loving us enough, and fuck them for loving us too much. The sins of all mankind can be thrust at the mother and the father. Fuck the mother, fuck the father. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough. I made you a drawing. I painted it with my blood. Please tell me you love me.” These are his memories. They flood his brain in a tidal wave of failure. He can’t remember who he is, but he remembers the mother and the father. They are the ones that abandoned him. Left him to sit in his coffin. He created this version of himself. Mother and father were lying in a pool of blood, fucking on a bed of nails. He watched them writhing and moaning. They were locked in their lust oblivious to his presence. They would give birth to a nation of whores and junkies. They created the dead and wounded who would spit at Christ and shove worms into his gaping wounds.
“Why didn’t you abort me, mother? Why did you condemn me to a life of degradation and misery? Why didn’t you shove a rusty coat hanger into your cunt and end my misery?” The image of his parents fade away, and with them go the corpses they created. He was alone once again. The needle sat on the edge of the tub begging him to shove it into his dick. The needle wanted to fuck his flesh, it wanted to take away the last pieces of his broken soul. It wanted to rape him. The rape of the innocence. The death of sanity, the carnival of sin and chaos. We are the dead. The needle coos like a newborn baby as it finds its way into his veins. The burn is good, the burn reminds him that he is alive. His entire life meant nothing. It was all about this moment, this fix. The fix is the miracle cure that will save the weak and make them strong. Come see the modern cure of the twenty first century. The needle never lies. It wants to console you in times of trouble. Fuck the mother, fuck the father, fuck your God, fuck your Christ. We are the dead, but the needle is your salvation.
With this needle, I thee wed. Fuck the mother, fuck the father. Needle, thank you for this our daily bread. Our needle who is Heaven. Fuck you, God for abandoning me! Fuck all your saints. I want to rape your angels until they scream and bleed. He wanted to be free, and the needle offered freedom. For God so fucked me by creating me. He nods off again and feels that familiar rush, and now he’s floating. He’s an angel of disease.
God doesn’t love the broken. He discards them as if they’re misfit toys. They are among the lost that no one remembers. No one ever told him not to trust the needle. It lies, but he is too far gone to listen. He is among the lost and broken. Far beyond God, far beyond the cross that bears the weight of some but not all. He was a fucking disappointment. The needle was his mistress, his whore. As he sank into the cool, cool black, he saw himself in the tub covered in vomit. Shit had spread out underneath him. There was nothing in his eyes. The secrets to life and death remained as they were. He was the patron saint of all of those in the gutters begging for grace and mercy.
The bathroom door burst open and a woman screams. Her vocal chords shred as she cradles her baby boy into her small frail arms. Her tears mix with the foam that has seeped out of his closed mouth. “Why? Why?” She slaps a face that’s as cold and hard as marble. The wailing brings the police, but the mother refuses to let go of her son. Her husband stands behind her weeping openly. The father had known it would end like this, but seeing him lying there made his fears a reality. Life was unfair and cruel. Where was God? Why did he take his child? All of his prayers and promises had been ignored.
How many times had they tried to save him? He couldn’t remember, and as he moved aside to let in the paramedics, he knew that they were too late. This lifeless body had once been alive. It was his only son. The memories hit all at once nearly knocking him off his feet. “We are the dead,” he whispered, as he held his sobbing wife. The father and the mother become one in mourning. The rain begins to fall outside in a downpour of misery. It’s almost as if the sky is crying with them. There are no words. There is only pain. The pain is real, the pain has come full circle. There is no joy in death, only suffering. The body is placed on a sheet and carried out on a gurney. Just another sacrifice to the Gods of addiction. Bring to us your desecrated idols, your weary and your tired. Bring us your misfits, and we can heal them.
