The Buy

It was a dark and wet August afternoon and I couldn't help but stare
out into the distance of what became oblivion. The air was filled with
moisture but not one drop showed its face in ages. I had just awoken
from the blissful slumber from what some call a bed. As I arose,
something began to take over that I expected but always feared.
Expectations for the destiny of my life have never sky rocketed to an
unreal level. If there was a category, I would've been named most
likely to not succeed in high school. I guess filling expectations
keeps everyone's mind off of you; especially in my twisted case. My
laundry was more than over due and stock piled up into an abyss of
cheap golf collard shirts and wrangler jeans that were either too
small or possessed a broken zipper. On this particular day, I decide
to thrown on the red shirt. It was the only one that wasn't covered in
any specific type of sauce or…….substance. I begin to pace myself in
gathering my outlook for the day. The more time I take, the less I
will begin to think about things. Too long have I given into
temptation under my own thoughts. Superficial feelings of my own
anguish over simple tasks begin to slowly grow into mammoth
holocausts. Scenarios began to develop inside my brain about birth,
death, and everything in between the crevices of humility. I couldn't
stay here any longer. My brain was beginning to forfeit under the
immense pressure. Something had to be done and I knew the perfect
solution. I had done heroin for about 2 years now.

My first experience just sent me over the edge. I remember as was at this one fucking spectacular party the elites were shooting up in the attic. I never
really understood why but I began to ask myself "Why not Heroin?"
After the stars began to align, and my world began to dissipate, I was
looking for the same somewhere else with stronger effects. If I get
high, I am looking down on this small little creature and pitying his
existence. I am laughing at how miraculous he makes his ways everyday.
In the clouds, nothing can make or break a situation. Standing still
is where I will be. The keys to my car are dug under the couch
somewhere I'm assuming; everything is. To my surprise, they actually
lie on the coffee table next to 7 empty beer cans and my sleeping cat.
I don't bother locking the door behind me; I figure if some person
were to stoop so low as to rob a drug addict, he must live an
unimaginable life. I'm trying to avoid Dave, so I crouch my head lower
and walk about one eighth faster. He is my landlord and I am
constantly plagued with a stockpile of overdue rent payments. I do not
feel like dealing with his bullshit at this specific time; I am off to
go somewhere. As I get to ground floor and head to the end of the
hall, I notice a sweet smell of tulips only for it to be violently concealed by
the overwhelming pollution that Detroit has to offer outside as the
spay painted door opens to ajar. The clouds out in the distance seemed
immaculate. The shapes they formed into the sky seemed as though a
child were designing them to his own playful fantasies. Red almost
they were; dark red. Somewhere around my complex, I notice a Mexican
man standing as though he was waiting for a ride like a middle school
child at the movies. That is my dealer. We make eye contact from
across the lot, and I begin to walk forward. This guy and me go way
back. Although he doesn't speak English, his occupation could be
argued, and had only 3 sets of clothing that he never mixed, I felt
him as a friend. I walk up and all I have to do now is hold up a
number off of my cold dried hand. This number represents how many
grams. He knows that I am informed on price, so we have no discussion.

As he flicks his fingers to a certain way, I know how many grams I
shall receive. As I am waiting to see his signal, I see something in
the back of my mind. This emotion rarely becomes over me, but it seems
as though I am suddenly fighting for my very own life. As I saw my
friend reveal an object from his inner wool lined coat, I realize he
is not holding smack; but a small rusty steak knife. Immediately, my
body soars into autopilot mode. In most near death situations, they
say humans become supernatural beings to protect themselves. On many
accounts, this lies true on what I became. I became something more
than supernatural, something dark and evil. As the man pulled the
blade, I struck my elbow into his 5 o'clock shadow and grasped his
head like an uncontrollable calf being branded. In this moment I was
no longer in fear of his might. It might have been the sound of light
metal and plastic from the small knife hitting the wet sidewalk, or
such convenient overpricing in the past months. I probably could've
been the withdraw from my heroin. All I knew was that I was not going
to leave this parking area until this man was dead; or at least
immobilized. I began to beat his face with my fist. My hand was
striking his head so harshly, that his face was being whip lashed into
the brick wall he was pressed up against. After several blows, I began
to hear his skull soften under the immense damage that was being
inflicted. For some reason, I just didn't care any longer for his well
being or even my own. Soon after the beating took place, he dropped to
his knees and began to plead for his life. I couldn't quite make out
what he was saying because of his slurred speech and broken jaw but I
believe it was "Please, Please, man just stop alright. I wasn't gonna
cut you man. Just please go." His intentions were for me to feel
remorse for his poor soul. He was about to find out how much patience
I truly had for him that fateful day. "I have been paying overprice
for your shit too long. You fucked with me on the wrong day. All that
needed to be done was you serve your pathetic occupation to sell me
drugs. That is it. You not only failed in one of the simplest tasks
imaginable, you have gotten greedy. Well, we all know what greed does
to characters in movies. Looks like you won't be the exception." At
that point, I made it clear to myself that he was going to die by my
own hands.

The blade next to my feet seemed like a one stop
destination to my goal. As I picked up the rusted blade, I see the
poor man kneeling and begging for his life once again. "You don't know
what you really are doing man. Don't do it. Don't do it." Those were
the last words from his mouth until I lost sanity and stuck the 4 inch
blade directly into his navel. The knife went surprisingly well into
his stomach. I was almost sure there would've been some struggle, but
it seemed like cutting butter. I retracted the blade and saw the
emotion on his face. The look of shock washed over him until emotion
was completely gone as he sat there in silence. Blood was pouring out
of him like a faucet, but I knew the damage was more so internal. I
stood up from the scene and everything seemed like infinite clarity;
almost transparent. I gave the man one final look of shame and turned
my body around. Before my second step, I felt weak and collapsed to
the ground. The one very moment when my head slammed against the
pavement, I realized I was wrong. I was hitting my living room floor.
I was awoken in a cold sweat in a city hospital bed. I wanted to look
around for the police but my head seemed to not be able to turn in
either direction. I hear the nurses in the background explaining that
I have massive internal bleeding in the stomach. They are explaining
to each other that I won't make it another few hours. As I lay here in
this white sheet bed, I wonder why the situation turned the way it
did. I knew what heroin could do to me, but I never knew what I could
do to myself while on it. The situation rested out of my hands. It
turned on me. I turned on myself.