The Needle

The needle calls me. Watson would say I was being foolish. He would tell me that I should fight my dependency and reject that sinister narcotic. But Watson is not here; hes off to his new and happily married life. I remain behind, alone with my bleak thoughts. And the needle calls me.

I tried, I truly did, to put it all behind me. I could see his grief each time I succumbed, his silent agony at my craving. He could no longer watch, he said, as I destroyed my life. And I would stop for a day, a week, a case. But in the end, I suppose, the lure of the needle was stronger than the regard for my friend.

And now Watson is gone and I am alone. There is no sense, no purpose, no distraction from the terrible and all-consuming call of the needle. There is no friend to share my rooms, my life. I am amazed at how much I depended on him, how much I needed him, how much I valued him, now that he is well and truly gone.

Without conscious thought the needle is in my arm, the plunger depressed, the narcotic dancing through my vein. I lay back, welcoming it, allowing it to ravage my body and calm my mind. It is all I have left in the world.




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