There is a Flame That Never Goes Out {two months later}
There is a 

Flame That 

Never Goes 


{two months later} memoir stories

Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
Excerpt from previous memoir post.

There is a Flame That Never Goes Out {two months later}

December 2009

My eyes gaze down at the bright, hypnotic flame dancing above colorful swirls inside the beautifully blown glass piece. Inside, the young pyromaniac awakes, smiling with devilish delight.

The flame pauses its number as my lungs inhale, dragging it along the packed, dry meadow. The dusty pollen of THC ignites like wildfire over Californian hills.

The warm smoke grows thick as it replenishes all worries or concern with stoned apathy.

I'm sitting three stories tall, outside on the back porch of my Mom's apartment.

Earlier, I'd taken her pipe and meager bag of weed in order to escape life, to forget who I am, or to enjoy a nice case of the "fuck-its.”

Anything to keep me from thinking about what happened just two months ago.

Hit after hit, I finish the bowl. It's not like the intense highs I'm used to from intravenous use, but it does get the job done.

The pot clears away the ugly thoughts that had taken control of my mind since that nightmarish day. Thoughts about throwing in the towel and ending it all.

This is what I like about weed: the calming tranquility it brings with the wonderful sense of 'whatever.'

I used to enjoy weed, smoking it every day as an underclassman in high school. It helped me pay attention in class, believe it or not. When I was high, I wanted to learn everything.

The world became fascinating again. Learning about people and the universe in documentaries and on the Discovery Channel. But there came a time while in school when I had to quit.

Becoming such a burnout, my parents began drug testing me. They'd never had a problem with it until rumors began to spread through the parental grapevine that I was labeled as a "stoner.”

It was true, but that's who I was and was proud of it. They didn't see things like I did though. I'd tried to reassure them, “At least I was getting smarter." They didn't get it.

After almost a month of peeing in a cup for them, the tests stopped. Naturally, I started back up again. However, a new problem had emerged: the high wasn't what I'd remembered.

Either during that two-week period the weed had become exponentially better, or someone had laced my weed with extreme uneasiness and intense insecurity.

After two hits, a giant wave toppled over me. The cloudy high rushed in, drowning my head in anxiety.

Instead of being relaxed, I was hurled over the edge, worrying about what others were thinking.

My mind raced with insecure thoughts: 'Were they thinking about me?' 'Judging me because I'm not speaking?'

The stoned, inferiority nightmare that night had lasted hours. I tried smoking again the next day, but was greeted by the same feeling. Same with next, ...and the next.

Until, I had to quit forever. But that's when I had discovered something much better--the spirit that exists within the bottled or canned confidence known as alcohol.

After getting drunk for the first time in sophomore history class, smoking weed became a thing of the past. I began drinking on a daily basis.

I wish it had stopped there--never going to rehab, meeting the female serpent I'd fallen in love with before she stuck that fateful needle filled with heroin in me.

Then I wouldn't be sitting here, contemplating self-euthanization.

I knew it after I found her lying there, ice-cold to the touch--she'd passed away in her sleep.

She must have since she made it to my bed instead of passing out on the floor; or even worse, with my roommate.

Just the thought of him makes my stomach sick. I would never let him touch such a beautiful thing.

I remember I had called my dad and tried to explain what had happened while simultaneously battling a constant flow of angry tears.

After I gazed down at her lifeless body, my feelings were drowning in a flood of remorse because...

She wasn't there anymore.

Ever since I can remember, I've been able to pick up other people's vibrations and can sometimes see their vibrant auras when I close my eyes.

But when I closed them that day and looked at her body, I sensed nothing.

No vibration.

No colors.

Just a dull emptiness.

It's an eerie feeling when someone is lying right in front of you and you can't feel their warm presence. Her body wasn't but an empty shell—a cocoon harboring a departed soul.

I knew it was heroin that took her last breath away. There wasn't anything in her purse telling me she had taken too much of anything else.

I remember her drinking and popping a pill or two--nothing different from what we had done every other night.

Though, before last night, I hadn't seen her in two weeks. I kept thinking, maybe something had happened to her during those few weeks I wasn't aware of.

I was deep into my addiction and I didn't want her anywhere near it. For two weeks I stayed downstairs in my frozen, flea-infested cave with Bubba.

Bubba, the drug dealing roommate someone had dumped on me. I don't know if it was him who gave it to her, but he was the only one in the apartment who had a heart cold enough to let someone try this evil drug.

I had already known not to trust anyone in the drug world, but he had dope, and if you have dope, you get to stay as long as you want. But that ended as the worst decision.

Not that I would've made a different decision, I can't even trust myself. Throughout years of living this way, I've learned the main person you can't trust is... yourself.

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