Pieces of Dreams

My eyes are beyond strained. They read each word of every journal uploaded to her abandoned blog site as I look for an indication of if she has had any lovers since I met her two years back. She concisely mentions us in a two-lined paragraph that I read once; something about being seduced by an elitist man. I cringe at her remark of my "penetratingly grey eyes resembling a hawk prying her soul open with its intense stare" wishing I could laugh at her whimsicality. Instead, I snort some meth with intention to dull the obvious offence I take, too busy to pack a shot, and continue reading.
I quickly learn she has turned down everyone aside from a close childhood friend who embarrassed her with his horrible sex skills and emotional attachment afterward. Tragic for both parties. She never had a day of retribution. She allowed her thoughts to enslave her into thinking she'll never experience love in some way. From anyone by the looks of it.
Maybe it is wise of her to stay away. She is a volatile person in need of saving from her occasional insanity. Perhaps it is petulant on the other hand to refuse to grow through learning in romantic situations. At least, that is the only benefit of young love. Growth.
The last noteworthy thing on the webpage I've spent three hours into the night reading is an entry with a stock photo of a mental hospital hallway. An obvious reference to me. She writes nothing of her visit other than using heroin for the first time instead of her atypical oxycodone binging. My faith is slightly restored in her as she is too discomposed to write that she had a sexual entanglement with a doctor that went on for eight weeks. My tensed shoulders relax.
I shut off the computer monitor and get out a clean needle. The process is simple but looks intricate to IV naïves. Place crystal meth shards on the spoon. Dissolve them in sterile water crushing them with the plunging end of the syringe. Draw up the substance. Remove the bubbles. Find a vein. Shoot yourself slow at the beginning and speed up at the end. Try not to cum in your pants as the rush hits you in the process of removing the band off your arm. I am such a junkie even thinking about it gets me off.
I've clearly not been responsible in handling my dependence. Here I am, strung out at 2:20a.m. with no incentive to sleep. I have work the next morning where I must decide where I stand on medicating the new admissions that fell under my care last Wednesday. The diagnostic involves watching their behaviour and reading what the nurses write down, along with speaking to them myself in where I easily imagine myself drifting off into space as I try to differentiate between the displayed symptoms of bipolar, cluster B personality disorders, schizotypal personality vs plain eccentrics vs schizophrenia, and of course, the easiest and most dangerous to miss, schizoaffective disorder. All of which require different doses of medications coming in distinct forms: pill or injectable.
My professor in medical school had always emphasized injections being a last resort for patients who cannot improve by committing to taking medication in pill form. The doctor I shadowed in my late twenties said the same thing.
My personal philosophy includes administering what is necessary. Putrid teens with no morals get thioridazine with no explanation why, and even then, no education to inquire why. I am a sick bastard abusing my power. I do not give a fuck who I harm once someone is on my shit list.

Melody calls me at 5a.m. but I do not answer. Not ready to hear her innocent voice, my intention is not to ignore her like some silly boy would. I will make time for her later, once my mind is not spinning in all separate directions several hours before work.
She is my submissive. Not my fucking wife.
I leave the house tweaked out on coffee and my shot of ice from hours before. It is a hell of a long-lasting drug, not to mention that I had to jerk off four more times that entire night just to not feel my body ache at the need for sexual pleasure it induces. I had to clear four hundred tabs off my browser before signing off the computer to pursue the rest of my day. I am a typical Scorpio, getting off to my deviance in no need of sleep.
If you must know, Melody is a Virgo.
She is beyond deadpan and impatient with idiotic people. She seldom cries. Her sexual urges do not control her despite torturing her, begging her to come out from her shell and evolve into a unhinged nymphomaniac. This internalization manifested into such an issue in her life she has resorted to one person – her first decent fuck – that she winds up fucking herself saying "I love you" to.
I have not been able to look at her the same.
Melancholic whore.
Possessive snowflake.
Imbecilic fool.
Everything I don't want to see in her coming to life in front of my eyes. Burning my soul to a crisp as reality fell short of my expectations. How dare she convince me fantasy cannot be a snippet of the actuality this universe throws into our hands as though we are starving mutts biting after bones being waved in their faces.
I decide I hate her, despite my heartache. The fondness I feel towards her only erupts inside of me in the form of anger and resentment, an utter lack of joy to her incompetent emotions. Picturing her in a rusty cage only being taken out to be fondled and fucked soothes my internal vice towards her.
Maybe it's the meth inducing psychotic thoughts after nine straight days of abusing it and only having a maximum of four hours of sleep in between shifts. Perchance I do want to rape and kill her, must I go through this again?
You read that correctly. Her name was Larissa Stark.