Needle in Vain — by Colin Katchmar
Crusty, used up, filth-ridden, a disease tracking robotic vein. The most crucial part of a diabolical mechanism. A hair thin, pin prick point; the culmination of all pointlessness. I guess everything serves a purpose. The vacant soul of existential worthlessness can't be sewn up, but it seems my parting seams are tearing away from the very fabric of my consciousness—so I might as well try it, right?
Like injecting fuel into a sputtering Oldsmobile, a fight for some semblance of relevance in a changing time you don't belong in. The past is past, or so they say. If I can just forget what's on my back and at my throat—it's all worth it. Synthetic peace can caress infinity before I dig tomorrow's grave.
Before long the tune is so familiar, the 45 spins ceaselessly inside my skull. An unrivaled power traces the grooves as I dance and shake my bones with a vigor that just won't—can't stop. Stop. No. I must—can't—stop—stop trying.
I will never break free. Stuck with what I was stuck with. A quick spurt and it's back to the dungeon. A hot flirt, but just a tease. She used to rush me around the world with that warm embrace. She used to carry me home at the end of the night, singing sweetly as I dazzled back at her with innocent glossy eyes. Now I'm sneaking out at all hours just to beg her to come back with me. She's the only thing I can't afford—to lose.
Finally, I find her; just before the sun comes up, in a dimly lit back alley of a soiled city street. She's cut. She's not all there. But she's worth a shot.
"I'm just so happy I found you." I shake with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. I load her into my thin silver car, and I drive her home.
The next morning is never the next morning. It feels like a yesterday you're doomed to repeat. Like that song you hate that just keeps playing on the radio, and every time you get up to turn it off, you somehow wake up to it again. You stand in front of the same dingy mirror and see the same sorry face. A sunken impression, empty as the baggies and caps all over your floor. Stuffed inside your backpack. Still inside your pockets. You carry it with you everywhere you go. You're getting so skinny there's no room left inside for anything else. You throw your hands sulkily into your pockets, wondering what's the point? And then it sticks you, a sharp stab to the pointer finger. You lick the bulbous red bead straying from your injured digit, taste the bittersweet sucrose of the pain you would kill not to crave.
But it tastes so good.
My mother used to have to fight me to take my medicine.
How serendipitous a discovery, that sedation not sedition now motivates my every whim? That which was a fun frolic now a fuhrer's wrath; dictated by the devil within, who whittles away at what little remains, he sucks up what's left and plunges the real me deep into my vascular system.
I pass slowly through a long thin metallic tube; my form contorts and warps to its shape. A necessary accommodation for the journey. Time goes so slowly, I'm not sure if it even moves at all. There are unforeseen evils here. Hitchhikers, stowaways. When the mosquito bites, you never know if what it carries will take. And when it does, it takes every cell in your being to break out of the last-brain-cell cell in which you've chained your mind. But you can change your mind. Only time can heal you now. Time, self-control, and a good gastroenterologist. But in the meantime, it's up to you. It's up to you to dig deep within your vein of gold, keep the needle out of the haystack and search your own pile of dead grass for something, anything that brings you more meaning than that vain metal point.
AUTHOR BIO:
Colin Katchmar is a writer who specializes in creative nonfiction. His work typically centers around topics of addiction and recovery, mental health, sexuality, and awareness. Colin's first published essay "Clean" appeared in The Awakenings Review in Fall 2021. Colin is in his last semester of his MA in writing at Coastal Carolina University and plans to pursue an MFA and one day teach creative writing at the college level. Colin endeavors to inspire change and create solidarity through brutal honesty and healing words. Writing is his number one passion, and he hopes that the world can learn something valuable about life through the way he renders and interprets his experiences. You can find Colin on twitter @KatchmarColin
