This is the first of six chapters -- a story by my friend Brian Luciano.
I walked into my house with unbelievable pain in my lower back and the realization that Dan was dead -- never coming back to the house. The police had finished questioning me hours earlier and released me.
There were phone calls to Dan's family and explanations necessary, of course. All of which I was not prepared to do at the time. I called my day program to let them know what had occurred and that I would not be attending that day, then I sat on a recliner and drifted off to a much needed sleep.
I awoke in a swirl of commotion -- ambulances, police cars and my roommate doing what she could to control the situation, which was well out of her scope. I walked upstairs and blurted that my back hurt, and was instantly on a stretcher. I'd thought I pulled some muscles dragging Dan to the tub and returning him to the bed after his overdose. I was taken in for observation where later I found that my organs were failing due to an overdose as well. By 'getting rid of the evidence' the only way I knew how, I'd ingested a lethal dose myself.
I was in so much pain that they prescribed morphine every two hours for what went on for days and I made this observation: drug overdose sometimes seems like a peaceful and easy way out but it can be more painful than death itself. I've never been in such a state of pain that doctors, knowing I suffered from an addiction to heroin, would prescribe morphine and, when asked, no one could say if I would live or die. It was touch and go for about a week and still I played the game.
I was not suicidal by psychiatric standards and was improved to the point of release. I was not released to an institution or a detox but was put in a cab and sent home. Since I had money and no desire to go home, I was dropped off at the local tavern, where in agony, I squeezed onto a bar stool, ordered a beer and a shot and drank until the distance home seemed acceptable even with the pain.
I returned to my house, and stood in the space where Dan and I had so many escapades and was filled with a sudden anger with myself, which was followed by nothing, nothing but the knowledge that I couldn't stay in a world of Dan's possessions knowing they were always going to be a strict reminder to me of what had passed -- knowing I could no longer enjoy what average people enjoyed. I deserved far less, and was going to escape to a world where I received or gave nothing to anyone and would protect the world from a toxic demon -- AKA me.
I packed two bags of my belongings and left the rest never to return to the scene of the best and the worst times of my life. In my twisted way of judgement there weren't any other options.
Tune in this coming Sunday for chapter two of the Wild Ride ________________________________________________________
Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.
There were phone calls to Dan's family and explanations necessary, of course. All of which I was not prepared to do at the time. I called my day program to let them know what had occurred and that I would not be attending that day, then I sat on a recliner and drifted off to a much needed sleep.
I awoke in a swirl of commotion -- ambulances, police cars and my roommate doing what she could to control the situation, which was well out of her scope. I walked upstairs and blurted that my back hurt, and was instantly on a stretcher. I'd thought I pulled some muscles dragging Dan to the tub and returning him to the bed after his overdose. I was taken in for observation where later I found that my organs were failing due to an overdose as well. By 'getting rid of the evidence' the only way I knew how, I'd ingested a lethal dose myself.
I was in so much pain that they prescribed morphine every two hours for what went on for days and I made this observation: drug overdose sometimes seems like a peaceful and easy way out but it can be more painful than death itself. I've never been in such a state of pain that doctors, knowing I suffered from an addiction to heroin, would prescribe morphine and, when asked, no one could say if I would live or die. It was touch and go for about a week and still I played the game.
I was not suicidal by psychiatric standards and was improved to the point of release. I was not released to an institution or a detox but was put in a cab and sent home. Since I had money and no desire to go home, I was dropped off at the local tavern, where in agony, I squeezed onto a bar stool, ordered a beer and a shot and drank until the distance home seemed acceptable even with the pain.
I returned to my house, and stood in the space where Dan and I had so many escapades and was filled with a sudden anger with myself, which was followed by nothing, nothing but the knowledge that I couldn't stay in a world of Dan's possessions knowing they were always going to be a strict reminder to me of what had passed -- knowing I could no longer enjoy what average people enjoyed. I deserved far less, and was going to escape to a world where I received or gave nothing to anyone and would protect the world from a toxic demon -- AKA me.
I packed two bags of my belongings and left the rest never to return to the scene of the best and the worst times of my life. In my twisted way of judgement there weren't any other options.
Tune in this coming Sunday for chapter two of the Wild Ride ________________________________________________________Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.
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