I cringed again as I dipped the silver-tipped needle into the vial of crimson liquid, pulling up the plunger to the syringe with meticulous care to get the precise amount. Closing my eyes, I grabbed the syringe and stabbed it into my arm, not caring where it sank as long as the blood made it into my veins with as little resistance as possible. There were so many pinpricks in my body now; pretty soon I would be covered in nothing but holes. My skin continues to heal, however, and every time I examine, there would be an empty patch just begging to be violated.
I waited with baited breath as the blood began to take its effect, the next part that I could never get used to. I gasped as a roiling sensation had me on all fours, my immune system struggling to comprehend this unexpected, nonsensical invasion by alien blood cells. What was perplexing was how despite the many times that I had done this, these planned invasions always caught my system by surprise, the pain never lessening with each time as sharp as the times before. I tried hard just to focus on breathing, hoping that this time it would finally kill me, but also fearing that it would.
I hated myself for being so weak, constantly making excuses for myself in my head, telling myself that I could not help doing what I do because I am unwell. As if psychological frailties could ever hold the key to all my answers! As the battle within me subsided, I was wrung out with exhaustion, heap of rags on the floor. Already I was thinking of the next hit.
You would think that fighting for your life continuously would make you appreciate living more, but all I want is for mine to end…and oblivion.
