Amber Stains

Long slender fingers caress the metal shaft, it's cool surface slowly warms up with the touch of the body. Well manicured nails, no dirt underneath, cuticles pushed back,a clear coat of nail polish, all make every movement seem so well thought and placed as if they'd done this a thousand times before. They open up a small baggie laying next to her kit, just a dash is poured onto the bent spoon. Those slender fingers now screw the needle onto the metal shaft, the surgical steel that once felt so alien, now feels inviting and welcoming, the mind travels back to an amniotic past where nothing seemed like it was, you could say everything was rosy.

With one pull of the plunger, a bit of water is sucked in. It is then meticulously poured onto the pink/brown powder in her spoon. One hand carefully holds the spoon now, while the other uses a lighter underneath it. It bubbles after a short time, after which she uses the needle to mix it in. Once the consistency seems proper, she pulls on the plunger to suck in all of the amniotic fluid from the spoon into the syringes' shaft. Now she can relax, as the hardest part is over and done with. Putting away all of her tools, she leaves out only the rubber tourniquet and syringe.

She walks to the kitchen for a drink of water, the glasses are just above the dish washer, there's a bottle of Perrier inside the fridge which she keeps stocked with tequila and beer. She serves herself a cup and sips at it slowly. On her way back to the bedroom she stops at her iMac where she turns on some music to lead her on her little journey. She first has to minimize the report she's been working on, not many people are able to understand the happenings of third world villages much less actualize a plan to keep a grand majority of them fed. Though she'd had enough of that for today, now it was time to forget about everything.

Music starts up slow, it's a mix of tunes ranging from The Velvet Underground to Devendra Banhart.

Now in her bedroom her slender fingers grab onto the rubber tourniquet as they wrap the loose rubber around her left upper arm and tighten it up, teeth holding on to loose pieces keeping a tight bind. Arm outstretched she slaps the inside of her elbow to pop out the veins. Once they are out well enough she grabs her syringe. At first she breaths in slow and heavy getting the syringe positioned just right. Her mouth waters as a thousand thoughts start to pour through her head of all the men that have been there but left, of the children she's had to hold in her arms to console from their hunger, from their sickness. Her co-workers who are still out there fighting the good fight, fighting for the less fortunate, of the ones who have died for the cause. She pulls on the plunger to make sure she's in the vein, the amber red liquid spurts into the chamber of her syringe. Red viscous blood which she can now see through a small glass window on the side slowly mixes in with her heroin concoction, creating a beautiful spiral of herself and the soon to be amniotic escape. She pushes the plunger in, a slow steady flow.

At first she feels little, her head is still swimming with memories, of the faces, the lovers, the people she's left behind. Everything encumbers her so, but it will all be forgotten soon enough. Pulling out the needle, and releasing the tourniquet, a warm rush goes straight to her head. A numbing feeling in the back of her skull, a tingling, spreading a warmth over her entire body. She puts the now empty chamber on her night table, as soon as it's metal body clinks against the wooden surface so does she collapse onto her bed. Blonde hair spread out around her head like a halo. White slender figure against her dark sheets accentuates the curves of her body. Now her mind is blank, there is nothing going on that could ever stop her from feeling this way. Her body gives itself fully to the heroin which makes it's way and embeds itself onto her brain. Opioid receptors light up as her own thoughts and emotions are shut down.

Nothing matters, everything is meaningless. Only thing that's real right now is this feeling like being on the clouds. Her high makes everything ok. She's not thinking about the children, about the faces of the damned. Her only thought is "God I wish I could get fucked right now." One hand reaches into her pants, she feels her wet pussy, soaking her slender fingers as she feels herself inside and out remembering the last man she was with, his hard throbbing cock inside of her all the way to her cervix, exploding orgasms, the way he caressed and kissed her. Her brain is too fucked up and there's only so much she can do for herself right now. Those slender fingers leave a wet trail from her crotch up to her breasts as she caresses herself before passing out from her drugged out self induced state.

In her dreams she's living inside a large house, with servants who do her every will and capricious desire. Her husband is a powerful and rich ambassador who shows her around like a prized dog, with their cat about and a chauffeur wearing a silly hat they drive around town to see the sights and to be seen. She doesn't have to worry about spending her money, nor does she have to worry about having to do anything for herself. Everything is already taken care of. She goes to parties where women wear dresses worth thousands of dollars that will never see the light of day again, and enough jewelry to feed a village for a lifetime. But she doesn't care anymore, she has her dream.

Her visions perpetuate here for a while, but end up in darkness eventually as the drug fully takes on. Her sleep is deep and constant, at least until her amniotic wet dream wears off. For now though, her ethereal self is swimming about in the abyss of her subconscious. Waiting to wake up, waiting to forget all over again.