26
Izzy
Ifought when the needle hit my arm. I’d survived opiate addiction, and I was sure whatever they had in that syringe, my body was going to suck it up and feel a high I never wanted to feel again.
So I fought. I fought hard.
It wasn’t the fear of experiencing a drug. I’d done that already. It was the fear of losing my sobriety, of losing to the addiction I’d fought so hard to overcome.
When two men had rushed into my apartment as I sat there decoding, my instincts kicked in immediately. I’d been trained years ago for undercover work. I knew the basics in self-defense.
I scrambled for my phone and hit record because it was the first thing I could reach before they knocked it from my hands. I kicked one of them in the balls and tried to shake the other free from my arms.
Two large men against me wasn’t really a fair fight, though. And I was out of practice.
I got a good claw across his face before he hit me hard in mine, and the other guy pulled my arms back and locked me there while his friend pulled a needle from his jacket.
Fear hadn’t really hit me until that point.
I’m not proud to say I begged. As I struggled in their arms, I hated how desperate I sounded. “Please. Please. I’ll go with you willingly. I’ve been sober nine years.” I choked on a sob. “Please.”
“It’ll be easier this way,” he murmured in my ear. He said it softly, like he was doing me a favor.
I screamed, I cried, I struggled.
I lost.
One prick of the needle, and it only took half a minute to feel it. The one I’d tried so long to avoid.
It was faster, stronger, and more potent than the last time.
I could lie and say it didn’t feel good. Hitting that high always felt good, though. It was a drug for a reason. Still, tears slid down my face at the loss before the weight of my head felt like too much.
“Fuck, dude. She’s not going to OD, right? If she’s sober, it’s going to hit her harder, right?” The man spoke English and then switched to Albanian. Back and forth, back and forth.
Nothing mattered anyway. I’d floated off.
I was gone.
Their questions faded away. The question of whether I would survive this faded away. My worries faded away.
Everything faded away.
The rough scrapeof cement on my cheek wasn’t a welcoming wake-up call at all.
Even as my body woke, I didn’t move a muscle. My brain was foggy, my heartbeat erratic, and my concern for my well-being was on high alert.
It didn’t take long for the effects of the drug to roll through me. I dry-heaved and curled into myself as the shivering started. I’d promised myself I’d never go through this again. I’d believed it too.
What do you do when your choice is stolen from you and leaves you with nothing but the aftermath?
Tears wouldn’t help me now, but they still fell over my cheeks. I tried to shake off the turmoil I felt, but defeat could be suffocating. It held my breath and light and hope for another day hostage as it weighed down my soul.
But I wasn’t a victim of addiction. I was a survivor. Lucas always said it took him and the drug to succumb, not just the drug. I tried to remember that now.
It would take me giving up and not moving for me to surrender to the fate they wanted for me now.
I wiped my eyes and scoped out the space. I was on dirty cement, and they’d left me alone with four walls surrounding me and a metal door.