trigger warning: addiction, abuse
Glazed marbles in sockets; her eyes stalked the wind’s sharp push of clouds. Rolling, smooth and white. The sky bleak in the greyness of winter, flecked with the odd darkness. Shards of ice crawled into her skin from the raw cold. The cracked concrete pressed hard against her spine, that was visible through her limp jumper.
The streets were empty of noise, yet she feared he was slinking in the shadows, yearning her to reunite with him.
Her clenched grip eased as the night faded into a restless fit of sleep. Dreams enriched with the perils of never escaping, never fleeing from the tendril of her past, that tapped at her consciousness.
Voices and the light of day opened her eyes. She was unfamiliar with these streets and felt weary as she packed her means of warmth into a bag and slumped next to the trolly stack of Tesco. A paper cup lay pitifully on the dusty concrete, a few coins nestled within.
Days were creeping by distantly. In the light, the shuffles of people morphed into a timeless slow motion of movement which trailed into the whispers of night.
£2 tinkled into the cup, startling her daze. She looked at the circles of metal and heaved her self from the ground. She made her way for food, her ripped jeans baggy sails in the sleety wind.
Her life now seemed to be a clockwork of unconscious action. Her limbs jolted her forward, sandwich in hand, whilst she hid in the comfort of her thoughts.
She remembered the warmth of her sister beside her, the chesty grunts of her mother in the kitchen and the fuzz of the TV.
She remembered the man with purple rings under his eyes who had slotted into her dad's place.
The sky had erupted into an outcry of rain and angry rumbles. She crouched beneath the overhang of a sandstone building, flour and butter pasted on her fingers from the last uncertain bite of food.
"Is gonna be a cold one."
She snapped around. An old man with three teeth and greasy hair.
"Betta' find someone to keep you warm.".
The man's eyes filled with menace. He paced closer with a slight limp in his left leg.
She laughed. A sensation she hadn't felt in a long time. She shook her head, but he began to lower himself next to her.
"Find another place to keep you warm." She warned.
He lifted an arm and placed it to her leg.
She flung it off and kicked his leg hard with full force. He grinned and pushed closer to her. Using all of her energy she screamed. Her voice a thin, scratchy chill in the frozen air. His face contorted, confused. But worried voices replied from the neighbouring city streets. Relieved she lowered her head.
The old man stood with speed and hobbled away, turning once with a threatful scorn.
Her chest ached from the palpitations of her heart. She was prey on these maze of streets. She wished old men were the root of her cold anxiety.
She was fearful her voice had pinpointed her, that he would find her and smother her in the darkness. He would be more angry than before, he would have more force, she would not be able to escape again.
The night had drawn in. The sky was black beneath the orange glow of the street lamps, slurred voices of the drunken wafted through the air.
It was cold.
Bitter and numb.
She ached. But aching was better than nothing. It was better than losing all control... to him.
The buzz of street the lamps clicked on, light flooded down from their craining necks. She pulled open her eyes. She stirred and sat up, spinning her gaze around the street. She wasn't alone.
A woman in a pink coat stood a few feet away, a grey stained hood shaded her face. She edged closer and pulled a plastic bag out of her pocket.
"You look dead." The woman shot; her skin was tinged with yellow and had a large scar on her cheek.
Her skin began to crawl. She was new to this area. She hadn't hid well enough. He had found her, she was slipping back, back into the ineludible hole.
"You need a hit?" The woman twitched. "I have good stuff." The woman squirmed in her bag and drew out a spoon and a silver package. The package shone, as if it was talking, tempting, indulging.
She shook. Her body shook and her muscles squirmed. She tried to speak but her lips were dry and stuck together.
Her brain stuttered, her consciousness shut down. Her hand, without being told to, thrust forward. It snatched the pouch.
Her body was lost. It was numb. He had trapped her. She fell down the hole she knew too well.
Her life faded.
He was addictive.
He was inescapable.
He was
heroin.
Author's note: The ending is intended to be dramatic, in order to open the eyes of those who have not experienced addiction. Yet, I want to stress that the fictional charcter did survive. She felt love, peace, joy... all whilst sober. She evolved. There is hope. There is light. Addiction is a disease that can be cured. Abuse can be healed. I absolutely promise that, words from someone who has done it themselves. See the links below
Disclaimer: This is a fictional tale written in the hopes to inspire empathy for those of us who are powerless to the grasp of society. Although I have never used heroin myself, I do have a history of addiction and substance abuse and utilised my experiences to empathise with and shine a light on the complex reality of drugs. I do not intend to depict those in a state of homelessness as being 'drug infested,' or make blanket statements for all those without homes. This is simply a short story to show that those who call the streets their home have difficulties and unknown stories behind them.
I want to be a part of dismantling the stigma and disgust shown to the homeless, so we can stop suffering once and for all.
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