Although in central London, the moist, dew splattered glass, smelt crisp and if the buses and slow stream of cars weren't present in the distance, one could easily believe to be in deep Hampshire or Summerset country.
Disappointed at the loss of my phone I continued to search the strip of grass I had ran, whilst chasing not one, but two grim reapers.
Whilst this was annoying, I knew the only people present were my family and tormentors. I would get it back.
Having hid in the dense bushes which created a second fence, around the park's perimeter. I decided to bang up one more time, before it became to busy to do so. I found a spot with adequate lighting, pulled up my jacket sleeve and used my bag strap as a tourniquet and flagged in a small vein on the underside of my arm.
My options are limited for injecting now. In the whole 8 months I used without disclosing, the big veins on my arm were like old rope, but repaired and functioned.
Due to my 'Psychosis' undertaking evil acts such as contaminating my gear (even my psychiatrist agreed a junkie would never lose or contaminate their gear!) or damaging my works by making holes in the needle, flagging was impossible and shots easily missed.
I had loss the ability to hit many of my larger veins as well as the sudden appearance of patches of rotting flesh. In every non fiction book I've read on drug addiction, the loved ones went above and beyond to ensure their darling junkie had fresh works. Ensuing they would minimise damage to someone who was clearly fragile before their discovery.
Not my loved ones. The scars I still bear will be a constant reminder of the soul destroying, damaging acts, they undertook endeavouring to make me stop using. No one can make one person stop using. But loving family support can influence their abstinence enormously. My ADHD makes my head turn to a state of constance chaos. If my world is chaos, I'm more likely to do something to reduce this chaos. Seeing as I would reduce, try not to use or even when I briefly stopped. The external chaos was ever present and equally chaotic, providing no respite in response to my changes. Naturally this only increased my using, breaking my abstinent phases.
In the three months psychosis stepped up it game, taking into consideration I wasn't nearly doing half as much as prior to psychosis, the damage to my body was four times worse, in half the time.
By now my tolerance was soaring to ethylphenidate, so whilst my shot was strong, it bearly buzzed me. While my heart did a mini grande prix, my hands sweated lightly and no doubt my eyes widened and jaw clenched, the hit's rush was absence from this shot. However there's only a fine line from a shot with a rush and a shot creating an 'Oh Shit' moment, in hindsight I can state this was probably a good outcome.
Due to the Buprenorphine, an opiate blessing me with pin prick tiny pupils, the massive black pupils associated with stimulant abuse, never touched me. If anything, they looked normal.
'Hey! What you doing here?'
'I've been working. Just finished now' he replied lugging a heavy rucksack onto the bench near where I was standing.
'I've lost my phone. Fancy helping me look for it?'
'Sure' he replied.
I had come across a unusual early morning park companion. His name was J*****, he was 37. Had a girlfriend who was currently pissed with him. He also banged up heroin. I should have taken heed to this disclosure. Generally, intravenous drug use isn't disclosed as casually as you would do the weather. Yet, due to my intoxication, homelessness and natural need to converse, I foolishly fell for his banter and agreed to go and chill in his and score some light and dark. The Junkette's never have a problem with my intravenous drug use. A normal person would.
Upon giving up on the phone search we turned back to the bench upon which, his heavy ruck sack had been laid.
'My bags gone!'
'Shit you're joking?' He wasn't joking.
'All my work tools are in there'
'Shit, bad luck b. Maybe it was the dick who took my phone?'
'Fuck it, I'm gonna score some b. Wanna come?'
'Yeah fuck it. Why not? Got shit else to do'
So off I headed to a virtual strangers house. Due to the bizarre number of Junkette's sent to befriend me, follow me or drive pass me, strangers no longer created any natural fear or hesitation.
I would walk, boldly into a road. Not looking for traffic, instinctively knowing the cars would stop. Same with strangers initiating conversation about intravenous drug use.
As we walked up the hill in Brockwell Park, the last pink ting of dawn sky vanished leaving a pastel, blue sky. Dotted with light, misty clouds. Today would be a nice day.
We headed towards an estate in Tulse Hill and up to a flat I was instructed to enter via the kitchen window due to lost keys.
'Hey! I'm back. I'm with J****. We're gonna get some gear'
'Urrrggghhhhmmm' a noise from a darkened front room replied.
We walked upstairs to a bedroom and J promptly climbed into bed. The house was disgusting. I had never encountered such dire standards of cleanliness. Grease in layers so thick upon the cooker I could have written my name. Equally thick layers of grim was present on the floor. The walls were shades of grey, where the original light shade had been dirtied to an extent it was no amount of cleaning would remove the dirty shades of grey, varying at hand level to shades almost as dark as black.
The toilet filled with dirty brown water and refused to flush. Alarm bells began to question these living standards, but the heroin voice drowned out any doubts with 'fuck it, you're getting a hit. You need a downer after all that speed'
J**** dosed in bed whilst I banged up some speed, refusing a hit himself. He would bizarrely and sporadically be immersed into withdrawal and roll over with an accompanying 'ohhhh... I'm clucking'
After an hour he called a dealer. Within 30 minutes it arrived. A teeny rock of crack, 2 blazes top. And some brown which J**** immediately cooked up. Upon giving me a syringe filled he promptly told me he was going to bang up in his femoral vein outside the room.
I was baffled. The gear clearly hadn't been filtered and even had pieces of tobacco in it. I squirted it into the cooker and used a filter. Pushing a drop on to my hand I tasted it. Tasted of tobacco and too much citric. I realised he had use the whole pack. It even says on the packs, this packet does one gramme of heroin.
No addict would use a whole pack on a 10 of brown. I pulled some paper work out from under the bed. Completely different names appeared from J****. Then children's schools books. Then pictures of an Asian family.
The ease with intravenous drug use.
The half arsed withdrawals.
The unfiltered gear.
Whole pack of citric.
Thankfully I was only able to bang up a small amount, and it clearly wasn't gear. The crack was legit and I smoked half.
'Caught out!' I sang to J**** as he came back into the room in the style of Usher.
'You're a Junkette, actor, set up to be friend me'
'What?'
'You're not the first'
...... TBC
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