I am searching round my friend's kitchen for a bread knife. I've never seen them slice a fresh, crusty loaf (in fact, like many of my more recent acquaintances, I've never actually witnessed them eat) but I figure as I've so far found a sieve and a cheese grater, that this is a reasonably equipped kitchen and a bread knife should inevitably show up. Having (to my shame) been in this situation before, I know that a serrated knife is needed. The bread knife appears at the back of the cutlery draw and I start some serious sawing. I'm about to cut open a sharps bin. The miniature plastic needle bins you're given when you get clean works from the chemist. The desperation for kat and the mania that accompanies days of no sleep and the beginnings of a come down have led me to this point. Earlier in the day I struggled to get a couple of my hits to stay in the vein, so there are syringes in the sharps bin full of a mixture of my blood and kat that I abandoned in favour of a fresh, new hit. In the mood I'm in the disposal of these fluids seems ridiculously reckless and I'm on a mission to recycle. It's disgusting, unhygienic, downright dangerous but in my mindset it seems both completely practical and necessary. It takes me ten minutes to break into the sharps bin, I find the syringes of congealed blood and with the kind of speed and efficiency that would impress a factory foreman, I've added water to the mix to break up blood clots and loaded into a new syringe the rank red hit that will barely touch me but has taken up so much of my time and energy this afternoon. I usually like to keep my works tidy and organised, I go through the process of having a hit methodically, but when I get like this, frantic and irrational, all that goes out the window. Scattered around me is the sawn open sharps bin, (whose rancid contents are in a pile by my left leg) the bread knife of paragraph one, a liberal spattering of blood and a pint glass of pinkish bloody water. I am coated in sweat, my arms are bloodstained and only when I find a vein to inject my second hand substances does the tension leave my body. That is until I look up to see my boyfriend stood in the doorway and just as he will never forget the look of total relief on my face as I indulged in the culmination of my filthy mission, his look of utter contempt and disgust at the scene before him is forever etched in my mind. I wonder if this is my rock bottom, then realise that the fact that I'm wondering means it can't be. It must get worse than this.
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