I find myself in a familiar room. There’s the smell of incense and tobacco with hand rolled cigarettes all over the living room coffee table. I stare at the same Starry Night that hangs on the back wall. So often I find myself here and never am I excited to come. I’m here to get what I need and get out. That’s all. Some time passes. Finally, I’m greeted by my “doctor,” the man responsible for my weekly fix. He smiles at me, and I feigned a smile back. “What’ll it be this time?” he asks. “Just my usual. Enough to keep me going for the week.” I subconsciously scratch my head. It’s as if I know it’s wrong for me to be here. I ignore the thought and wait while my “doctor” gets my prescribed dose. He weighs it out, bags it up and sticks out his hand for payment. I cough up 80 dollars out of my 240 dollar weekly paycheck. I immediately head towards the door, meds in hand. “See you next week!” the “doctor” calls out. “See you next week,” I mutter with contempt in my voice.
I waste no time getting home. I take the backroads because they’re not patrolled by pesky cops. The speed limit is 40, but I always go out 85. The roads are straight for long stretches with only a few twists and turns. “Man I can’t wait to get home.” My mind is fixed on my meds. Soon, all of my pain, all of my worries and troubles will fade away. I arrive at my double-wide and can hardly contain myself. I leap out of my car and try to open the front door. I fumble my keys in the dark. “Where is it, where is it?” I pick out the house key, only to drop the ring. “Fuck!” Beads of sweat drip down my forehead. All I want to do is medicate. Finally, I get the door open. I rush inside. I throw my coat and keys on the floor and unpackage my meds. I load them into my grinder and fill up the black stained pipe. With a deep breath in, I exhale all of my sorrow, all of my sadness, all of my pain, and all of my sanity. The room is filled by my plume of smoke. I look across to the mirror hanging on my wall. Something seems different. “I don’t look like myself.” Feeling frightened, I smoke more. The paranoia is eating at me. “More, more, I need more.”
I smoke my whole supply in one night. Like a dragon that devours its tail, I am never full. Enough is never enough. I reach for my phone and call my doctor. “Hello?” “Hey it’s me again, would I be able to make an appointment for tomorrow?” There is a pause. “Dear me, did you go through your medicine in one night?” With not a shred of embarrassment I answer “Yeah. I need more.” Not seeming concerned in the slightest the doctor replies, “Alright. Why don’t you stop by at noon tomorrow?” I affirm. I hang up and sit staring at the mirror. Before I know it, I’m surrounded by the smell of incense and tobacco again, waiting to feed the dragon that devours its own tail while staring at the same Starry Night painting.