All I can smell is death.
And that smell radiates from my dad.
His white T-shirt, which once fit him snugly, now hangs off his gaunt frame because it’s two sizes too big. He’s unsteady on his feet like he’s eighty-five instead of forty-five. He hasn’t showered in days, and I can’t remember the last time he ate.
But none of these things matter to a drug user. The only thing that matters is when they’ll get their next fix. That’s the only thing they focus on. Life be damned.
My birthday was yesterday, not that it matters. I haven’t celebrated a birthday since my mother left. But as each year passes, I promise myself, “This is it. I’m out.”
But every year, I seem to fall deeper and deeper into desolation, and it’s getting harder and harder to crawl my way back out. I spend the whole year
