Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

"See this, hombre?" Rodrigo asked, holding up the blade for a second before pressing the flat side against my cheek.

I should have been shitting myself.

Should have.

But wasn't.

Because I took four 30s right before I hit the street. I was a comfortable kind of numb. I was fucking invincible.

And I knew that once my drugs were all sold, I could go home to Ransom and get another hit- enough to get me through until the next morning. I would supplement with a fifth of Johnnie to hold me over until my next round of dealing the next afternoon.

So my brain wasn't thinking of the knife and the danger involved; it was thinking about the next score- one that was hard enough to send me flying back against my bed, staring at the ceiling as the elated feeling coursed through my system, took all the goddamn memories away.

That's all I wanted.

I just wanted to be mother fucking blank.

Because if the high wore off, even for a minute, all there was was the misery and memories I had been fighting off for years. Buried by time, when they came back, they were fucking crippling.

So my mission in life was to never let them come back.

I didn't feel it when he sliced my shirt of, cutting my chest in the process. I didn't even feel it when he took that one slice and turned it into a D.

I didn't even feel it when he threw me back onto the ground, leaving me staring up at the sky, the stars nothing but a wish for clearer skies so I could actually fucking see them as he came over me, took the knife, dug it in and pulled upward.

The scream was what made me snap almost instantly sober. My head swiveled to see a young girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen standing there with giant blue eyes, horrified at the sight of Rodrigo over me.

Thankfully, she wasn't alone and her father grabbed her and dragged her along with him.

But it was enough to spook Rodrigo, realizing perhaps that he shouldn't air his dirty laundry in public which was exactly where we were- in a small alley between two apartment buildings, but close enough to the mouth that anyone passing by could see.

That was what saved my life that night.

Rodrigo got up with a threat to my boss and I crawled my ass out of that alley and into a cab, wanting to go home, but I blacked out from the blood loss and woke up later in a hospital room, stitched down my side and hooked up to drips.

It was the first time I was offered detox.

It was also the first time I accepted, figuring as the high wore off that if I was getting so stoned that I hadn't even thought to fucking fight back, that things needed to change.

With that, I was shipped to the local detox. I was signed in, had my cell and wallet taken from me. Then I was pulled into a room and strip searched, one of the most humiliating things I had ever experienced. I was then stuck in a room with a meth user who was twitchy as all fuck twenty-four hours a goddamn day. I was given endless Subs, more than I needed, more than anyone needed. I was high on fucking maintenance drugs. They gave me set eating and sleeping hours and private and group therapy.

It was decent.

The Subs blocked the withdrawal symptoms.

The therapy made me face up some of the things I had been ignoring.

But then two weeks were up; I was given all my shit back; I was signed out; I was deemed "detoxed" and then sent home.

And, well, the Subs wore off in a day and I was fucking withdrawing again.

Back to Ransom I went, met with open arms because his favorite fucking lost cause was back to dangle around wherever he wanted.

It was another nine months before I detoxed again.

That time it forced because I got locked up on a possession charge. After six months awaiting trial in the county jail, I was let off on time served because of having no previous record.

Back to the streets I went, this time with a record and unable to get any job because of it. And who was waiting for me? Good ole' trustworthy fucking Ransom.

The next year was mostly blank spots in my memory.

I had flashes here and there of switching from pills to snorting.

Then snorting to shooting.

I had been an addict for several long years before I realized that the revolving door of detox centers weren't the answer.

I didn't need to be coddled.

I didn't need to be handed drugs to ease the transition.

I needed to fucking suffer.

Maybe it wasn't for everyone; maybe it was unique to my case.

But I needed to throw a blanket over my head and sweat it the fuck out. I needed to have my skin crawl. I needed to feel pain in every inch of my body. I needed to rage hard enough to punch holes in my wall and then fall into the pits of despair. I needed to puke and dehydrate and be absolutely fucking miserable.