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He stared blankly at the wall as he felt the heroin enter his bloodstream. A sense of overwhelming pleasure engulfed James. It felt like a warm frothy sea slowly reached up and pulled him into her bosom. The world was warm. . .so very warm. For what seemed the first time in his life, he felt something other than pain.
He knew it was all an illusion though. He knew that when the drug finally quit having its effect, he would again feel the agony that had been his for so very long.
James’ mind began to wander back in time, back to a place where he had also felt content. He saw himself as a very young child. He was living in a world that had long ago forgotten him.
He kept drifting. . .drifting. . .
He toddled around on the green grass of his parents’ lawn. The nearby trees were brilliant with the coming life of spring. It was a beautiful time, but he was too young to appreciate it. The birds chirped as he awkwardly made his way to a nearby nest. He couldn’t see into it, but was curious of the sounds that came from within. His mommy had once told him that the sounds were from little birds and he had wondered if they were littler than him. When he wanted to play with the birds, he was told that he would hurt them and they would be afraid, so he contented himself with listening. As he looked up, he clumsily thunked to the ground, his diaper cushioned his fall. He stared upwards in rapt attention until he began to drift away. . .
As he lay on his back the shadows dappled his young face with a combination of light and dark patches. He could occasionally see the fluffy white clouds drifting lazily overhead on the deep blue sky. It was summer, his favorite time of year. The warm air and bright sunshine always seemed to make him find his way to this secluded place. Here, his annoying sister and angry parents faded away from his mind. He was no longer a part of the world that thought it owned him. He knew that when night fell, he would have to go back, but until then he could lay here under the leafy canopy and drift along with the clouds.
Those clouds were so high above the earth, so free. When he saw a jet stream or an airplane, it made him angry. People should not be sharing the sky with him, it belonged to him, and he belonged to it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to drift away. . .
Red gold yellow orange, the entire display of gaudy color assaulted his eyes. Blue and green were the colors he had always preferred, but with autumn came the bright colors that signified the end. Fall wasn’t exactly the best time to be out, but it was the only time that James could take his vacation. He wandered around through the fluttering leaves as they fell, hearing the crackling of the dead ones with every step. It saddened him. They had done their part and the tree had gotten rid of them as soon as it had used up what was needed so that it could preserve itself. Although he disliked autumn, he balked at going back inside. He wanted the time that he had to himself and it seemed as though this were where he would get it. As he walked he was disheartened by the lack of life sounds around him. No baby birds were chirping, no clouds drifted lazily by in the warm sun, all that was there was a gradual cooling, a slow end. He stared at the multicolored leaves and began to drift away. . .
James shivered in the cold of the bleak winter sky. He hated winter; there was nothing to do, and no pure blue sky to see. Everything was gray. He hated to do it, but he knew he had to go back inside. Any more time in the bleak cold would surely be worse than what he would face back at the house. But there was some sense of fear that lurked. He did not want to go back into the house, though he knew a large fire would be warming it, and it would be comfortable; he would be able to sit down and rest his tired and aching bones and muscles. Yet he still didn’t want to go. Finally, he turned and began slowly hobbling back to the house, all the while cursing his legs and painful joints. He reached the door and began to drift away. . .
“He’s gone,” James’ son said as tears made his eyes glisten. His father had looked so happy for many moments after he had injected himself with the drug. It wasn’t sorrow for his father that brought the tears, it was the joy that the old man had experienced. James Jr. looked out the large picture glass window of his father’s house through the tears and saw the jumbled colors of autumn. Still holding his father’s dead hand he began to drift away. . .
. Excellent descriptions. Bravo