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Prologue of My Memoir: Under Your Influence 


September 2009


        As I'm stuck at a traffic light on my way home, I observe all the other people, wishing I could trade my life for theirs — not knowing today would be the day my life would change for the worst. 
        Much worse. 
        On my way back home, there's a pungent odor of trash and cigarettes floating in the air of my car. The sickness I feel from withdrawal heightens my senses. Even though there's nothing in my stomach, it's rolling inside like waves on a closed, abandoned beach. I roll down the window, but it's like opening up the oven to check on what you're cooking and out comes a waft of air, thick with heat. I remember the news saying this summer is at a record heat. 
        I just bought fifty dollars worth of dope. It would be enough for a good shot and a little leftover. My eyes water from yawning profusely, along with my nose and every other orifice leaking from the initial symptoms. I try to rush home so I can shoot up.
        Shooting dope for me now, is not to get high; although, I do get a little high sometimes. Heroin is now my elixir that makes me a normal and functional human being. My heart springs up into my throat every time I think about it. It's no way to live, but it's how I survive. Besides, I don't live anymore. These days, I merely exist. 
        Cigarette smoke fills my nose and the yearning void inside me that replaces my fuming jealousy and envy with synthetic pleasure.
        It's a temporary fix to my everlasting struggle against thine own self.
        I've fallen headfirst for this fix.
        Any fix.
        Anything that prevents me from feeling the grudging resentment dwelling inside me.
       Why do I fall in love with things that kill me?


       My name is J, and I'm an addict. 
       The human body is mainly made of water, therefore, everything comes to us in waves—highs, sickness, luck, pain, anger, anxiety, happiness, sadness, etc. But I wasn't ready for my addiction that came at me in a tidal wave, while I stood there, letting it destroy me. 
      I had unintentionally allowed my body to be infiltrated. 
      Possessed by a demon.
      Now, in my pathetic world, full of constant pain and confusion, heroin related runs the streets.
      With her gritty hooks, heroin had taken control over me, like a malevolent master pulling the strings of his powerless puppet. 
      It wasn't so much a hook as it was a needle poking me invariably. I remember when I used to have a fear of needles. Now, I dig one into my skin multiple times a day. When I can't find a working vein, I'd stab myself a hundred times till I found the right spot. 
       When my girlfriend, at the time, introduced me to the syringe, I had entered another world. I had considered myself an addict before, but it didn't compare to the addict I became. 
       When you use a drug intravenously, it’s plunged straight into your bloodstream, giving you all of its effect, how you're supposed to feel. After that, smoking, snorting, and ingesting any drug was pointless and a waste. I wanted to shoot up everything I could. 
       But deep down, past my addicted self, lies my child-like soul that cried every time a needle broke my skin, regretting the day I had been curious enough to try it. 


      People tend to call marijuana a “gateway” drug; however, in my life, rehab was the gate, with alcohol being the path leading to it, while heroin and the needle locked it behind me. 


       Forever frozen in a state of absolute agony.
       Locked-up in a painful prison; except in this internal dungeon, parole is not an option. 


       I arrive back at my place a little after 3 in the afternoon and find best friend, Brianna, still asleep in my bed.
       “Geez girl, come on, time to wake up.”
       I need her to wake up and leave, so I can shoot up and have this sickness taken away. There is no way she could know I'd been shooting dope. It has been tough enough keeping it a secret when she lives in the same complex, two flights up.


        “Wake up, Bri—.”
        Nothing. 
        “Hmm,” I wonder aloud.
        I find it odd her still lying in the same position: on the right side of the bed, on her stomach, with her head facing the left.
        She also doesn't look like her normal self as if she had a fraternal twin trade places with her in the night. Something seems off. Although, she is still in the same glitzy clothes she had on the night before, leading me to guess we didn't have sex. That's probably a good thing though. It always seems to screw things up between friends, but I’m not saying it never happened. 
        When we went out, we were each other's wingman—I'd help her get a date while she helped me, and if we were both unsuccessful, we'd hook up. Not a bad deal.
        I would never date her though. If anything were to happen, breaking us up, it would devastate me. I'd never risk losing my best friend in the world. I'd lose an important part of my self that provides my happiness. 
        She is the person who spends hours getting ready whenever we go out. She is the definition of “fabulous,” and always makes a strong, glamorous entrance, letting everybody at the party or club know she has arrived. I cling to her at these places while we'd dance all night. She breathes spirit into the party so we always have a raving time together. I envy her confidence and beauty. 
        I walk over to the side of the queen-sized bed. She looks like a queen underneath my cotton covers. Though I am no king. Far from it. 
        I gently shake her left shoulder. 
        “Brianna,” I whisper. 
        I slide my finger along the side of her face. 


        It's ice cold.


        My stomach sinks. Heart stops. Everything in the room, my apartment, the world, comes to a halt. 
        I put the side of my face in front of hers as if she were telling me a secret. But no words come out.
        Not even a warm breath.
        My heart comes back to life, pumping at an alarming rate. I take the same hand I used to shake her shoulder and flip her listless body over.
        I gag and choke on air as I stare in horror at the dark purple splotches spread across the entire right side of her wax face that touched the pillow. With both hands, I palm her ears and shake her gently.


        “Wake up. Wake up, sweetie.” This isn't happening. “Wake up!!!”


        A flow of blood surges up to my head as I draw myself up off the bathroom floor. I nearly make myself sick moving her body to the bathroom, thinking the shower might wake her.
       My muscles give out from carrying her and I become dizzy.  I sit down putting my back against the wall. I hold my best friend’s body in my arms as we lie on my bathroom floor, her ashen face colder than the unkempt linoleum. There are two bodies here, but only one heartbeat. 
       At this moment, I want nothing more than to join her. To have cops put the white homicide tape around our two bodies, holding us together forever.