Final Transformation

Trigger warning: depictions of drug abuse and overdose

               The sun beat down on her as she trudged along the street in the deep August heat.  She was so tired, exhaustion weighing down on her like a heavy blanket.   The pain deep inside her was unbearable. She did not know how her heart could keep beating when it felt liked it was ripped in two. She wanted nothing more than to go home, but her home no longer existed.  As she walked by her mother’s house, she noticed no one was there. Although her parents had told her she was longer welcome, she walked into the garage and pulled out her son’s kiddie pool. She dragged it into the backyard, filled it with water from the hose. When it has half full, she turned off the water and plopped into the pool, fully dressed. As she sat there, deep wracking sobs escaped from her, all the pain, frustration, and humiliation exploding from the depths of her soul.

               She did not cry for long; her body could not afford to spare the moisture. The night before, she had not been able to find a good vein. She was so dehydrated and malnourished that her veins could not handle the thin needle. In her desperation to escape her harsh new reality, she had attempted to inject herself in her breast and contemplated the fat vein in her neck. She was not that far gone though, and with a little water and peanut butter in her stomach, the overused and scarred vein in her left arm accepted the needle and the glorious oblivion it brought.

               After a while, she got out of the pool and started toward the trap house she had been staying at. A couple of blocks from her destination, she noticed a cop car slowly rolling down the next block. She ducked into an alley, cutting through back yards, trying to avoid being seen. She knew they were looking for her, had seen them following her. Or maybe it was just paranoia from the heavy drug use. She could not tell anymore; her mind was constantly playing tricks on her.  She made it to the house, slipped through the backdoor. Desperate faces stared at her; she had set out earlier in the day to score but returned empty handed. The disappointment on the faces of the others mirrored her own.

               Walking to the living room towards the suitcase that held all her worldly possessions, her mind riffled through the mental catalog of what she had left.  She wondered if she had anything of value that she could sell, pawn, or trade for that drug she so desperately craved. Obsessed as she was with scoring, she stopped short when she caught a glimpse at herself in the large mirror hanging on the wall. Horrified, she took in the hollow cheeks and jutting collarbone. The worse were her eyes, sunken

 and black, flat, no spark of life left in them. She looked like a walking corpse, and she knew it.

               In the brief moment she stood gazing at her reflection, her mind went back to the before. Before the first time the pipe touched her lips, before the first line was snorted, the first hot rail, the first prick of the needle and the rush of heat.  For years she had felt inferior, insecure, unwanted. Then she had pulled herself together and took control of her life. She went to school, became a nurse, transformed herself into the person she thought she wanted to be. And yet those same feelings of inferiority and insecurity persisted. Her unhappiness with herself and her life continued to taint her every waking moment. She took her anger and frustration with herself out on her children, losing control over the slightest infraction.  The look of fear and defeat in their eyes reminded her of herself and her childhood, and she resented them even more. She just wanted an escape, a respite from the life she took for granted.

               The first time she tried meth, it seemed like it was the answer to all her problems. No more exhaustion from the long hours at work while raising two babies under the age of five. Now she had the energy to put in more overtime and play with her kids after work. No more wild mood swings: one hit of the pipe and calmness enveloped her mind. No more feeling insecure and out of place; when she was high on dope, she felt like the baddest chick on the block. And so she smoked more and more, speeding her final transformation along.

               Someone called her name, and she turned away, already forgetting the image in the mirror. She had more important things to worry about. A large sledgehammer had been stolen and brought back to the house. Did she want to go pawn it? She was the only one with an I.D., after all. She eagerly nodded her head, suddenly feeling re-energized. Did she want company? They would walk with her. No, she was fine, she would go by herself, attract less attention. She hurried out, a new bounce in her step. She was on a mission.

               She hurried along her way, ducking into alleys, walking through abandoned yards, trying to avoid traffic. She made it to the pawn shop and was greeted as she entered the store. In the last few months, she had become a frequent customer. Completing her transaction, she walked out the door. The plan was for her to return to the house with the money so they could score, but the small amount of money she was able to get would not get them all high. Instead she headed across the street to the grocery store where she could access the free Wi-Fi.  After sending a message to the dealer, she waited impatiently for a reply. When it finally came, she made arrangements and then headed out again, this time to score. She had a used and bent needle in her pocket, she hoped it was sharp enough to push through her vein one more time.

               She met the dealer in an alley behind an abandoned house. Money and drugs were exchanged, and the dealer hurried away. She found a semi-comfortable spot among the weeds and began the ritual. She got her fix ready, the liquid thick in the syringe.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping this time the transformation would be complete. She was tired of appearing alive on the outside, while inside her soul was rotting and the stench filled her every waking moment. She hated herself, what she had let herself become, the way she lived her life. She had tried to escape this life, but always turned back to it with open arms. She was tired of fighting, tired of pretending.

               She plunged the needle in her arm, the drugs slamming through her veins, straight to her heart. It was more than her body could take, and in an instant her heart stopped. The final transformation was complete. Now her dead body matched her dead soul.