I walked into the room and found her lying on the floor. He was lying on top of her. Enraged I ran over, yelling and screaming for him to get out of our house. Neither one of them moved, at all. Their needles were still lying on the floor, the rubber still draped loosely across her arm as if she lacked the strength to slip it off before she passed out. Not an unusual scene for me to come home to.

There was a different smell that night. The air was still, not a breath. I pushed him off of her and pulled her up onto the couch, leaving him on the floor. He was new, not one of the regulars; most likely the source of the new smell. I left where he was and continued to tend to her. Her skin was cold, probably because there hadn’t been the funds to pay for heat in a while. I laid her down on the couch and covered her up with an old blanked. Still there was no movement. Not a breath; not a sound. I checked pulses; nothing, in her or him. Panicked, I called for help. I started CPR, like they do it on the movies. Three in, pump seven times, listen and repeat. Paramedics arrived and I was on my fifth cycle on her. She was pronounced dead on the scene. I never touched him, and he made it.

I was eleven when I found my mother after school that day. After that, I went to live with lots of different families. Some cared for a while, some never did. Now I’m alone, for better or for worse. As fucked up as I may be, no poison will ever reach my blood stream.
Unknown "Stakey ღ" Panicky - 16 years, 9 months, 10 days ago