It’s been a week now. One week of being clean. Seven days. A hundred and sixty eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes of being clean and I don’t know if I can be clean for a minute more. I need it. My head’s throbbing and my body’s shaking. I need it so bad.
I roll out of bed and it takes me a couple of minutes before I get off the floor. It’s calling me. I can hear it, feel it clawing at me. No! Mind over matter. It’s worked for a week and it’ll work now. Mind over matter. But I need it. I need to feel them in my hands, between my fingers, hear their voices.
I look myself in the mirror and I don’t know who’s the man staring back. He’s definitely not me. He has sunken eyes with black rims around them, gaunt cheeks, and a skinny body frame. No, he’s not me. I need it. Why can’t I have it? ‘Cos it’s bad for me, that’s what they said. That’s what my doctor said. They don’t understand though. No. Mind over matter. I can do this. I open the medicine cabinet and I take my medication.
The pills no longer work. They’re getting weaker and weaker and the addiction’s voice is getting stronger. I pop one pill then two then three and they get weaker everytime. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I’m now standing before the door. Behind the door lies it. I place a hand on the knob. No! Stop! What’re you doing? Clean for a week now. I open this door and I’ll spiral down to ruin once again.
Take your hand off the doorknob.
I twist the doorknob. Slowly.
Hand. Off. Now!
Their voices are getting stronger. Sweet, sweet voices.
Pop one more pill and go read a book. Go now! Close the door. Go!
I hear someone crying. The pills are crying. I pull open the door. They’re singing now. Oh can’t you hear them?
Stop. Stop. Stop. Mind over matter. One week of being clean. Don’t ruin it now.
The door’s now fully open. There they are. Layers upon layers of them. Bubble wrap.
Please step out of the closet. Plea—
The pills have gone silent now. I step inside with the wraps and I close the door behind me.