KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

I’D PUT IT OFF LONG enough. It was time for me to confront my demons and say goodbye to Sally properly. I’d missed her funeral because of my detox. I had to reconnect with the world now after dropping out for the past eleven days while I got through the worst of my withdrawal.

I’d taken the first step and found myself somewhere to live; a crappy motel overflowing with the destitute but cheap enough to justify the clientele. Next step was my appearance—I had to get myself together if I would integrate back into society, get a job and try to find Sally’s killer.

I took myself down to the thrift shop and went crazy with the little wad of cash I’d allocated for the trip. I got a great bicycle which sorted out my transport; who needs a car anyway, right? A stash of factory-reject Calvin Klein’s solved my underwear, socks, and T-shirt problems. I got a full set of clothes in an eclectic mix of styles, from mothballed Miller western shirts to shiny track pants and ancient Nike pumps. I was treading a fine line between retro and down-and-out, but what the hell, recovering junkies can’t exactly be the picture of sartorial elegance less than two weeks after they mainlined h****n between their toes.

I topped off my buying spree with an outlandish pair of bright gold pimp sunglasses, a pair of hair scissors and an old cutthroat razor with a pearl handle. Then on the way out I spotted a walking stick with a handle of a carved snake head glaring and spitting; I simply couldn’t resist the urge to buy it. I figured I deserved a few ridiculous luxuries after what I’d been through. At the last minute, I spotted a Polaroid camera and some film, so tossed that in for good measure.

With my cash reserve somewhat lighter but exchanged for a great new selection of important items, I rode my bike back to my motel, lugging my shopping bags over my shoulder. I dumped everything in my room and then stripped off my filthy old rags and tossed them in the garbage.

I missed smack so much. Not feeling that rush left such a hole, so deep inside me, that I just felt like an empty husk. But my resolve was firm—I swore I would not be going back to that hell.

I stopped and looked in the mirror and shook my head in disbelief. It was the first time I had looked at myself n***d in a mirror for more than a year. Gone was the big-chested, straight-backed, six-foot four-inch and 240 pounds of muscle-bound quarterback from my college days. In its place was a shell of a man, hunched over, round-shouldered and scrawny with bones protruding beneath pallid, yellowy skin. Long, greasy, matted hair clung to my scalp, and across my face meandered a scruffy beard. Milky, bloodshot eyes stared back at me in the mirror from deeply drawn eye sockets over enormous dark bags under my eyes. I figure I must have lost more than a hundred pounds of muscle; no surprise considering how severely I had been starving myself. A doctor would surely classify me as malnourished.

As I continued the visual stock take of my emaciated frame, tears welled in my eyes and rolled down my face, deeply saddened by what I had become and the depths to which I had sunk. It had all been in pursuit of that evil white lady, the vile b***h always crying out for more, never satisfied. I had become possessed, a slave to a substance that I would never have thought could have me in such a death grip. When I had been immersed deep in it, I was oblivious to what it was doing to me, but now, in the cold hard light of day after a period of abstinence, I could see the truth staring back at me like the zombie I was, one of the walking dead.

With my arms hanging by my sides, I turned my palms outwards to face the mirror and stared impassively at the ugly, red and inflamed track marks along my arms. My skin was blotchy with scars and poorly healed scabs and my d**k and balls were shrivelled up like dried-out prunes. I had a shaky tattoo, intended to be an eagle, on my left shoulder that looked like a twelve-year-old had done it while having a fit. My arms, covered with street tattoos, stared back at me, mocking me in their hideousness. Hard drugs can seriously impair your decision-making abilities.

I turned around, back to the mirror, and looked over my shoulder at the ribs protruding beneath the skin. My gaze travelled down my body to what used to be my a*s but was now just two flaccid empty sacks of skin hanging above my legs. My entire body ached and felt drained, like a giant industrial vacuum cleaner had sucked out my insides.

They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well, f**k me, I really had a problem. And it was time for me to sort my s**t out. My first task was to record where I was right now as a reminder to never go back there. I took out my Polaroid camera, loaded the film, pointed it at my n***d body in the mirror and snapped a photo of myself in the absolute worst physical condition I could have imagined. I resolved to use this as a tool on my road to recovery and rebuilding my life.

From the depths of my once brilliant mind, came a quote from the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu—The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And so, I turned away from the mirror and moved my feet to take that symbolic first step... right to the toilet, because I needed to take a giant s**t.

So much for ancient Chinese wisdom.