Mark and the loneliness of a sunday night.

Why am i wondering about drugs tonight? Maybe it’s because Mark is out since 2 hours and i already miss him.

I must point out that it’s the NEED coming back whenever he leaves. This need has nothing to do with heroin, it’s hiding under my skin, hiding behind every word. What else should i say, no other man can understand like he does. I can’t stop asking myself what i did during all those fucking years. Why do i love angel powder?

My mother used to call me “my angel”. My mother…i could write a thousand things about her, about me and her. I think she’s a saint and that’s why i could have killed her sometimes. It’s really hard to say things like that about her. But she don’t understand. Who can understand why i chose to live my life this way?
My friend once said to me: “Heroin is like a whore. Some men buy prostitutes, i buy heroin. I never had the courage to buy girls, i wanted because i was alone or just because i am curious. Afraid of women? A little bit. It’s much easier to love something than somebody.” Maybe i am like him. I didn’t even wanted to fuck with Mark today. I want to see and touch, so we just caress each other. I think this is my problem; i prefer caressing. And prostitutes don’t do that, that’s why Mark loves me. I love heroin because it kisses me, that’s it, a long and passionate kiss driving me crazy. Heroin addicts need tenderness.

Another puff on this joint burning my lips. Mark is not back yet. The time makes me suffocate, this room makes me suffocate. Like when i was a child, i was six or seven, waking up in the middle of the night during summer because it was too hot. I’d just lay on the floor to find some coolness and watch sweat marks of my body fading slowly when i’d stand up. I’d look by the window for hours, watching movements in the dark streets and lights in neighboors houses. It’s crazy how life is going at 2am; people shout and beat each other, they fuck and quarrel or vice-versa, sometimes it was my parents who gave the show. Some are going home drunk, some steal cars, others stay in their cars to do weird things, some go to work. And then cats, garbages, music, and i never found out why every sound seemed incredibly special. I don’t know why i have those pictures in my head, and those odors, it might be the Spanish neighboor cooking.

I have something running in my head, it’s this world, this fucked up world. I don’t like this, everything that’s going outside my apartment, it’s too complex. I like simple things. Maybe that’s why i can’t have any interest about this world. There’s nothing to make me move, or giving me will. I am lazy. Or i believe in nothing. I don’t know, i’m stucked.

Mark is here, he found some. It will restart. Every 3 days we say: “Tomorrow we stop.”. Then it always happens, an idea, or a friend coming and making us change our minds. I look at him while he makes sure everything is here; it makes me smile, i don’t know why but i love him so deeply when he’s getting ready to shoot. We should definitly stop the time at this moment and stare. LOOK BUT DON’T TOUCH. But honestly my eyes start to touch and take the seryngue. I see the blood in the spoon going up in it, the blood going from a body to another. It makes me think of Emily…when we were 13, we cutted our wrists and put them together to be blood sisters. We had seen that on TV. Heroin and i are now blood sisters too.
Sometimes i am afraid of never had become an adult. I wonder if there are people who are serious all the time. It’s weird because i feel so old at the same time and i would like to be a kid forever.

I love old people. It’s true, they are boring sometimes, but i think it’s the world we live in that makes them stupid, hypocrite, with fascists ideas. But i still love them. I hope to meet and old man like we see in movies, a poor man telling his war stories, so he’s not afraid of life anymore and he don’t need to be aggressive. I like old ladies too. There is a poor woman giving bread pieces to birds in the park, she talks to herself because nobody talks to her or maybe she just think it’s not worth talking to people because they’re always stressed and late. I should talk to her.

I think every child needs stories like that. Because there’s always somebody to tell you one, because they lived it, because they cry while they tell you things you can’t understand and you feel it is so important. But instead of that, everybody thinks old people are there to make money because they’re getting older and older so they consumme more and more and more, clubs, clothes, gym, journeys… Old people have feelings too.

I should travel. Leave. I want to leave this fucking city in black and white. I want to go somewhere else to see if people are happier or if it’s just me who is depressed by Montreal. Another country for another identity, to be known differently, to meet something else, somebody else. Heroin addicts say they shoot to leave and travel, so they can forget that they never went away from the hole they live in, wherever it is, it’s always a hole when you love The drug.

Mark falls on his back. I turn back, i don’t like to see him like that, i see me in the same state of mind. He’s too far, he’s distant, gone to unnamed territories and calm deserts. We’re alone in heroin, all alone. I think i started to shoot because i felt alone, alone in my head, alone in this world. But it didn’t gave me a cure against this loneliness, this loneliness of being. If people want to understand addicts they have to start by this point. It’s a bizzare loneliness because it makes you indifferent and isolate you more from the world. It’s a love loneliness; there are people, when they’re in love, who feel like they are one person with the one they love, they never feel alone. I felt this one. I’ll never feel it again. I was afraid of the dark when i was young. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts, wolves, or monsters hiding in the dark. I was afraid because i was alone, as today, as tonight. And if i am addicted to this white powder, it’s because there is this darkness, this night inside of me that can’t go away. People think i like darkness, because i live during night and i love it. The silence everywhere. The silence of the night, it’s natural, real, like if there was nothing important to do. Heroin is a silence experience.

With all those ideas running through my head, we didn’t even ate. Mark is lying on the bed, eyes staring at the wall, he didn’t said a word since a long time. I look at him, he moves slowly. He will soon stand up, go to the bathroom, and stay in it for hours to wash himself, wash himself again, and again. It’s always the same thing, like if he want to get rid of something dirty inside him. I am hungry.

The taste of food had disappeared, odors too. With heroin you’re not hungry, you don’t WANT. You lose weight but you feel the powder is filling you up. I don’t know what i am filled with, but i know i am full. Then coming back down is so hard because you feel empty. Anguish is the emptiness and a thousand things overcoming at the same time, and then it’s overflowing. When i shoot i fill myself with emptiness, i put something in my vein so nothing else can enter my body. I don’t want to want. Maybe i shoot to be MORE, more than the others, some kind of revenge, a way to stay indifferent and to have a special secret. My secret is now in my pocket.

Mark just got out of the bathroom, he says nothing. He takes a chips bag, turn on the TV and sit down, then he stand up and turn off the TV. He goes like this for 30 minutes. I don’t want this shit, i don’t want this drug no more. At the beginning it was wonderful, it was the danger, the pleasure, the cool friends to give you more when you were broke. It was delirious, the music, the atmosphere. Today it seems so different, there is no more risk because i don’t care.

Mark come and hold be and put is hands on my breast. I feel good. He take a puff of the joint i just lighted. He don’t say a word, i feel his breathe against my neck as he take a look at the text i am writing.

“What do you want to do? You want to leave? You’re bored of me?”

I put my hands in his wet hair and give him a kiss. I don’t answer his questions. I look outside by the window…i see another world; a world i don’t understand and who don’t understand me either. A world with others addictions, money, TV, cars, but everything they hold on are as short-lived and illusory as heroin. The only difference is that when i look at Mark, i see him losing weight, i know he’ll never have kids, and a job he love, and i know he’ll stress me out soon like every others men because we’re unhappy in heroin. I want to meet somebody happy, somebody who will tell me what it feels like to be fine. Tonight it’s my only wish. I dream of a life where i will wake up in the morning, not at 11am, where i will go out on the streets without fear, without feeling like a zombie surrounded by zombies going nowhere.

I want to see the trees on the streets with another point of view, with another color than the gray of the night covering everything, everything no one cares about, everything i know too well. I dream of a life where those trees could tell me that i am breathing oxygene; tell me that i live, that i have green inside me, that the red of my blood can stay inside and it don’t have to go up in a fucking seryngue.
Mark fell asleep. I dress myself, fill a wallet, and i leave. I let this text on the table, with those words i added so i won’t feel guilty…

We’ll see each other again,
where old people are happy, where the night is more silent and trees are greener.
I love you Mark. Dagney -xxx-