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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; he’s 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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