Abortion Clinics, Bricks, and Escorting (first two pages of Chapter 11)


I’ve sold my soul to something far worse than the devil.

I want to travel deep into my brain and give it a hug, tell it everything will be okay.

It’s not like we mean to. But we are slowly heading toward oblivion. And what the hell is there to do there? Once everything runs dry . . .

Sometimes it’s easier to fear the worst. It breaks the silence in your head. My head, at least.

Which would you rather – nothing, or everything in reverse?         

            I’m thinking too much, guessing too often, supposing instead of knowing. We don’t need to know everything. I’m just so run down. Cold and still, sad and cold, still and numb. Exhausted from feeling. More exhausted from not. From trying to feel. Where did my feelings go? Did I sell them with my soul?

No one cares about a heroin addict in love. In fear. Consumed with so much fear, so much wanting. He has made me selfish. Heroin has made me selfish. I can’t keep my eyes open, but I can’t stop filling the silence in my head. My heart? Does one exist?

She’ll show you the time of your life, then make that same time run out.

My life has become a love letter to heroin. The track marks are simply a game of connect the dots. If you number them correctly, they form the truth. In my love letter I will tell her all that I have sacrificed for her. I will name those who I have pushed away, and she will hold my hand as I am unable to weep. Soon enough you will not read my letter on paper. A pen will no longer be my instrument. Instead, a syringe will take its place. And my confession will be in the form of scars, for all the world to see. She wants humanity to know how much I love her. That I am no longer a part of it. I am lost in another world now. A world I’ve become too blind to see.


Try to keep your composure
But it’s so hard when every word is a moan,

            every glance is a secret scream

            We’re reaching out for insanity,

            because it’s so much easier to find.


It’s always a lie, even if you don’t know it.

Someone put up the wrong street signs. I followed the one that said “Somewhere” when it should have said “Nowhere, you’re just driving around in circles. There is no exit. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.”


Lack of Heroin.

            My body’s writhing but I can’t move. The pain is too intense.

Is it possible for one’s skin to actually crawl off?

Because that’s what mine’s trying to do.

It’s impossible to do this.

You don’t think. There is no thinking involved. No matter the promises you made, or the people you’ll destroy. Nothing else matters. There’s a cure for the agony you’re in. Even once it’s not quite agony anymore, there’s a cure for this harsh reality. And that’s all that matters.

She’ll find a way to get what she wants. She made you fall in love. She made you need her.

You just don’t realize, the people you’ll really, truly need, you’ve killed in the process of getting to her.

You’re on the road to killing yourself.

And you may start to realize just how alone you are, but then, they’ve never experienced pain like this. You won’t be alone whilst she is holding your hand.

All the crying you couldn’t do, the emotions you couldn’t feel . . . yeah, they’re here now.

But it doesn’t matter because they don’t mean a thing. Nothing does. Nothing but finding her


3 thoughts on “Abortion Clinics, Bricks, and Escorting (first two pages of Chapter 11)

  1. Tempest, this is the most real description of the agony of emptiness I have ever read, and one I can fully believe without ever having known the experience first hand by heroin use, but only by the fear-induced manufacturing (or cessation) of my brains own drugs that caused clinical depression.

    Your opening line, “I’ve sold my soul to something far worse than the devil”, and your follow-up uses of the same literary them: “Where did my feelings go? Did I sell them with my soul?” are a perfect set-up for the very credible sense your writing conveys of no longer being in a normal relation to the real world but at the end of the road to nowhere, of being “no longer a part of [humanity]… lost in another world now. ”

    I ache for you, sorry that this gift to your readers, those who can benefit from reading it (who will discover they are not alone, and not crazy or imagining their own agony) has come at such an excruciating cost you.


  2. This is the most powerful piece of writing I’ve read from you. I want to say that I love it, but the pain you describe is so real that it would sound wrong.
    I still have catch-up reading to do on your blog…but I’m going to read this post again, first.
    Congratulations are also in order! I saw the progress bar on your homepage. Well done :).


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