Withdrawal
J Joseph Michaels
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 J Joseph Michaels
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My head buried in my sweaty palms, elbows digging into my knees. I shiver. Is it the cold tiles of the floor or the icy tiles of the wall against my back?
I quiver, alone in the dark nobody can see me shaking.
An army of angry spiders seemingly crawl all over me. I scratch violently, but there’s nothing on me. The itchiness almost hurts.
My stomach flipping, vomit tries to come up. I’m only a few feet from the toilet if need be. Days without food, yet it still tries to escape my stomach.
My brain is spinning, dizziness.
Every breath is a struggle. It hurts.
Tears escape my eyes. I beg for the strength needed. I cry for help, but get no answer. He can’t help. It’s all on me.
I can’t even light a cigarette, the shaking is too much.
I crawl through the blackness to the bowl and dry heave out the contents of my empty stomach. It hurts.
The freshly cleaned bleached out scent of urine smacks my nostrils. On my knees I once again beg for help. He doesn’t answer.
Two solutions. The hospital, 4 blocks away or the liquor store around the corner. Which is easier? Which will take the pain away faster?
I can dial 911 or walk to a $3 forty ounce? Both will end this Hell, the latter being the easy way out.
Alcohol is one of the only withdrawals that can kill. Not heroin, not cocaine, but booze. I know this, I fear this. As I kneel helplessly on this dark bathroom floor, am I about to die?
Three days without alcohol and my rock bottom comes in the infancy of sobriety.
Drink or death?
That forty sounds like a good idea…