Moses

Moses

I sit and wait, eyeing past the trees and benches surrounding me. No one is watching, no one is around. I reach into my pocket pulling out a syringe, I place it unto the grass next to me. My hands begin to shake as a cool sweat comes around. It's been too long, I need it. I can't keep doing this to myself. I can't hold back from taking it. It consumes me, and I like it. My trembling hand reaches back down into my baggy jeans. I grasp hold of a small plastic zip up bag. I try and bring it out but lose my grip. It falls back down into my pocket. I reach back down again. Gripping it then losing control and dropping it back down. I whip my hand across my eyebrows feeling the cold moisture spread across my wrinkled skin.

I feel lightheaded, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel as if my insides are burning and punching to get out. I bend at the waist choking on my own spit. My eyes burn and become heavy. Sweat is drenching my clothes creating a foul odor I can't even bare. A sour taste fills my mouth. Food that I recently ate creeps its way upwards. I know what's going to happen. I raise my head, looking again to make sure nobody sees me. My insides are twisting and turning on me, my heart feels as if it's rising up into my throat, than dropping down hard into my stomach. My legs are wobbly. It's hard to stand.

I look back down towards the ground, heart racing, stomach ripping itself apart, and I let it out. I shut my eyes tightly, gripping onto my ragged shirt filled with saliva and other mixtures. It comes out of me like a volcano spewing ash and burning chunks of rock. My nose starts leaking something, I open my eyes and wipe it with my shirt. Its blood. I'm bleeding. I try to stop it. I try to clot it. It's not working. I'm still puking. I'm still shaking and sweating. I'm a mess. I'm a disaster, a bomb that's exploded.

I've finally stopped throwing my insides out. I drop down to my knees. I feel something sharp break as my knee impacts against the ground. It's the syringe. It's broken into pieces. I can't use it anymore! I needed it! I NEEDED IT! I tense up, making a fist with both hands. My veins pop out so there now visible. My eyes turn redder and grow even heavier. The tremors become worse. I pick it up piece by piece. Moving it out from underneath my knee and whatever hell that came out of my stomach. The cloth of my denims is now saturated in slime. I don't care though. I care only that my syringe is broken. I needed it.

I reach back down into my pocket. This time grasping it harder than before. It comes out, barely. I sigh as it drops onto the dirt flooded in puke. I pick it up and move it to the side. It's still useful. I put all my wait on my left knee, placing both hands onto it and pushing upwards. My leg gives out from under me. I fall, all one hundred and eighty pounds of me, straight into my own doing. I lay there, unable to move. Unable to take what I need. Unable to feed my addiction. I'm useless without the demon. There's no fun, no peace unless I have it. My world is nothing. My life incomplete and pulled into despair and hopelessness without it, "Please". I whisper to myself. My eyes focusing on the white filled plastic bag, "Please". I say as tears rush downwards from my eyes.

I extend my hand out forward, stretching, reaching for the bag. It's too far, I'm powerless. I can't move the rest of my body. I'm convulsing, incapable of anything. My head is pounding, feeling as if it's being hit over and over again with a tire iron. My ears are ringing, my vision is blurred. I can't feel. . .anything. I grow tired. I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, but they are. My eyes still focusing on the bag. The pure white plastic bag, containing ounces of heaven, too far from my reach. I want it so bad. I'm crying for it. I feel a rush of blood flowing throughout my body. My body is trying to cope. It's in survival mode. Begging me to give it more. Terrorizing me until it's inside me, "I'm sorry". I say to myself. My vision is getting worse. I'm no longer able to make out my surroundings. My head is literally killing me. There's so much pressure on my eyes I feel as if they're going to pop out. I need my heaven right now. I need my serenity. Everything is beginning to go dark. My eyes closing until there sealed tight. I'm gone.

I wake to the sound of machines beeping; the paging of doctors to certain rooms. I hear the rolling of carts being pushed down the hallways. I feel the cold sensation of liquids being pushed into my veins. My body feels enclosed with clean fabric, on top of that I sense the warmth of a blanket. It's comforting, it's pleasure to the body. I love it. One thing hasn't changed though, I'm still hurting, that feeling hasn't gone away. It's just toned down to a lower degree. My eyes are still shut. I'm afraid to know where I am. I'm afraid. There's no other way I can put it. I slowly open them, the bright light from the ceiling blinding me. My eyes trying to adjust. I turn my head away from the light. I face the barely visible doorway and open them.

I begin to count off the number of seconds it takes for my eyes to adjust, "One. . .Two. . . Three." I'm facing the doorway, looking past the small window planted in the center of the door out into the hallway. I'm at a hospital, I think. I turn my head back towards my body, looking down at myself. I'm covered in a soft white fuzzy feeling blanket, and beneath that I'm in a grey spotted button gown. My breathing becomes heavier, I pat down the sides looking for pockets. No pockets, no nothing. My bag isn't with me. It's gone. My heart pulsates faster, feeling as if there's someone in my chest beating on a drum violently.

I hear the machine next to the bedside match my heart. I see the lines on the monitor going up and down in rapid motions. I look down towards my arm and grab hold of the needle hiding underneath my skin. I rip it out. My teeth chattering, my body freezing. I swing my legs over the bed until there hanging off. I rip off every other little thing on me. I place the soles of my feet on the chilly tile floor. With one hand I grab the bed sheets tightly, with the other hand I push myself off. I'm standing. I attempt to take one step forward and crash back down onto the floor. I extend my arm toward the machine and place it on it, pushing myself back up in the process.

I move my foot forward slowly, than the other one following. I've taken five steps, no closer to the door. I take another and end up on the floor again. The door swings open slamming into the wall. A man and two women walk in staring down towards me. He says something to them that I can't hear. They run off somewhere I'm unable to see. His tall figure moves closer to me, kneeling down on one knee until he's right over me. I look up, my eyes meeting his for the first time. He's older than me, his white long hair sitting at his shoulders; my image reflecting off of his glasses. His blue eyes look into mine, I want to look away, "You're alright." I hear him say. I look away and stare past him, focusing out into the hallway, "My name is Doctor Cage, you're at Raphael the Archangels drug rehab center." My glassy eyes look back up towards him," Can you talk to me? Are you able to speak?"

I search through his eyes, mumbling something while doing so. He can't hear me though. I nod my head, "I can't help you, if you don't speak to me." My mouth is dry, almost as dry as what I imagine the desert feels like. I make saliva and soak my mouth. My teeth hurt and my tongue feels torn, "Hurting." It comes out. He looks back as the two nurses arrive with a wheelchair.

He puts his arm underneath my armpit as one of the other nurses dose the same. They lift me up and place me on the chair. The other nurse grabs a hold of the handle bars and pushes me out of the room, the doctor following. The hallway is white with a blue and red stripe going down the middle. We stroll by other rooms filled with names, I look back to the room I came out of and see no name. They don't know who I am. I don't even know who I am. We finally come pull up to a large closed wooden door. The other nurse opens it while I'm pushed in. They move the chairs aside and pull me right up to a black matte desk. A computer complete with a keyboard rest on top of it. A calendar with days circled in blue pen and marked with words sits in the middle of the desk. Unorganized papers are stacked on each other to the side with coffee stains and a Pittsburgh Steelers mug resting on them.

The two nurses leave again, this time shutting the door behind them. The doctor walks past me and pulls out his brown leather rolling chair. I look down towards the floor, watching as the wheels seem to hover across the white square tiles. I look back up at him, trying to study him, "You're very lucky sir." He says as I look out the window behind him, watching as the wind blows the trees branches back and forth, "Glad someone stumbled across you, or else you probably would have died." I close my eyes, knowing that I feel dead without my bag, "Do you have any questions for me, anything you want to know before I get started?"

I look him in the eyes and shake my head, "Alright then, can I get your name?" He ask me, "You had no I.D, or anything on you when we undressed you." I look down towards my legs, I place my hands on them, rubbing, trying to keep my hands warm. I look back up, "I think my name is Moses." He nods and begins to type something down, "How old are you, Moses?" I think about that for a minute, "Thirty four, or thirty five." I say as I begin to slowly nod my head up and down, "Do you have an address or mailing location?" I shake my head and he types something else," Where do you reside then?" He ask which seems like the same question, "I live underneath the Liberty Bridge, in a tent." I say as I quickly look away from him. I hear his fingers making contact with the small letters of the keyboard. He's typing fast, not even looking down to make sure he has the right letters.

He looks at me, "What are you on?" He ask. My hand begins to have light tremors, "Nothing." I say as he stares back at me. He moves his hands away from the keyboard and connects them both together placing them onto the calendar, "I'm going to ask again, what are you on?" He says in a demanding tone. His eyes show his seriousness. I don't want to say the word though, "Nothing." I say again. He reaches up towards his face, taking his glasses off and placing them onto the desk, "Moses, I can't have you lying here. I'm trying to help. In order for me to do that though, I need to know what you're on." I look at my hand, it shakes lightly, my body still craves it. I can't give it up. If I tell him, he'll take it away from me. He'll keep me here till I'm clean.

I don't want to be clean. It makes me happy. It's all that I've ever known, "Moses, I can help you. Together, we can help you move on. Please Moses, tell me what you're on." I shake my head, "You'll take it away from me." I say as I begin to tear up. He leans forward and places his arm on my shoulder, it's heavy, the hair on his arms stands up, "Don't you want help?" With tears in my eyes I respond, "If it means not having it, then no." The look in his eyes tells me he's disappointed, "Unfortunately, you are required to stay here. It's here or jail, Moses. I'm sure you won't get what you'll get here than over there. So, make your choice well. You can either tell me what you're on, and stay here. Or refuse, and go to jail. Take your pick."

There's no way out of it. I'm not leaving anytime soon. I'm not leaving until they allow me. They'll clean me out, they'll help me, "Heroin." I say. He puts his glasses back on and begins typing again, "How long have you been on it, and how many times do you use it?" I think for a minute, "I think for five years, five to six times a day." I say. He jots that down and then resumes, "Have you ever attempted to stop?" I shake my head, "Have you ever thought to seek counsel or attend another drug rehabilitation program?" I wait for a minute than speak, "No." He types that in.

He stops typing than looks back at me, "I know you're tired, we'll continue this another time when you're rested." He pages the nurse to come back for me. He turns to face the window behind him. There's other patients walking the grounds with nurses and fellow doctors, "Give it some time, you'll begin to like it. Sooner or later you'll be thanking us." Sooner or later you'll have your own miracle story to tell." He says as the door opens and the nurse walks in. She comes behind the wheelchair and takes the handle bars into her hands. We both leave the room, she shutting the door before we pull off. We stroll back down the same hallway.

When we arrive at my room, she opens the door and pushes the wheelchair close enough to the bed. She hangs on to my arm as I left myself up. I sit at the edge of my bed. She turns to me before leaving asking if I need anything. I shake my head and watch as the door closes behind her. I'm stuck here, a prisoner, a captive beast dying to get out.

I know not where I will go

Nor who I will become

I know not the years that pass

Nor the years to come

I pry to live day after day

And in the end

Win in the final fray.