Curing Agent

The acute pain shooting through my body manifests as sore, achy muscles that squeeze together and create a full body hell. This particular withdrawal makes me nauseous on top of these unpleasant sensations that have me know I'm going to hurl at least a pound.
It's a struggle getting out of bed with the amount of discomfort I feel. I almost want to call off work – but that wouldn't end well for me. My occupation is my life. This indulgence just comes second place. Don't forget what would I be without my obsession of fondling the damaged individuals who enter my grounds. I am in peril of my incongruity, as every man who abuses his power for egocentric reasons. My one motivation for leaving this house moves grants my body robust strength to overcome the pain and get up. I'm going to require methadone in a short amount of time from now – it is too late to survive withdrawal upon quitting using. I snort a fat line so I cannot feel the soreness anchor into my body any longer.
I get to work twenty minutes early to read charts. Ridiculous behaviour in Ward 2, sexual relations between the foolish young in the main one. Everything else appears to be normal. I start my shift in the uncultivated ward. Beevington.
Across from me, Priscilla chooses to stand instead of sit. She is lanky with her long neck and strawberry blonde waves. Her small brown eyes are narrowed. When she uncrosses her arms, it is revealed, the massive amount of cuts going up from her wrists to her forearms.
"Is there anything I can do for you during your form one?" I've already decided medication isn't necessary for this one. She has oppositional defiant disorder.
"Aren't you gonna punish me for throwing a knife across the kitchen?"
I peer at the notes.
"Where is recovery when there is strain on the individual's progress?"
Her expression to show relief. No one has told her this information resides permanently in her medical records.
"It's not in my job description to facilitate your repercussions." This concludes my meeting with the first intake. Relief comes over me when I find the rest of the twelve are still asleep in their rooms.
The rest of the day is repetitive; the same conversations take place with different people as I fiend for drugs all day. I must have drank four coffees throughout the first half of the nine to five. Here and there, the resentment for my decision last night to let her go creeps on my thoughts during windows of distraction. It was the perfect timing and I chose to sympathize. Poor of me.
Later I shall plan a way to execute this properly. Dope her up until she passes out and have her wake up in my basement. Sounds like a plan until someone hears her screaming for help. Perhaps a trip to another country on a secluded property.
A beach house.
My thoughts of what I am to do are halted by a patient shouting loudly at a nurse. The humour in her eyes indicate she wants to be sedated. Few and far between there are adults who act out because they enjoy getting Ativan shots. It's no different than those who break one of their fingers for a thirty day supply of oxycodone.
I feel like a degenerate sometimes too.
Maybe I am. The closet junkie conduct instills a deep shame I must not acknowledge, for every second I think of the failures I've succumbed to brings on my inner insanity like electricity meeting water. It is beyond difficult to forgive. You can call me a weak one.

I'm exhausted by the end of the day. I look forward to arriving home and procrastinating on my plans to take care of the halfwit. Junk first. Homicidal ideation next. Go to bed for my regular occupation the following day. Rinse and repeat. It irks me, how it is a conspiracy to some people in regards to clinical depression's existence.
What a blessing it would be to be able to question if depression were a myth.
The warm blanket sensation I feel after doping myself leads me to think about her. How she destroyed something beneficial for her. A system that was teaching her about men lead to her ultimate mistake; attempting to manipulate one. I no longer see the beauty in her face.
My emotions are a sea of misery. Meth is a wonderful curing agent for ignoring your feelings and replacing them with mania. I spend the rest of the night jerking myself off instead of planning.
At 4A.M. I receive a call from Melody in where she claims she has been unable to sleep all night. That she feels something horrible is about to happen to her. I inform her most people with high levels of anxiety experience this sense of impending catastrophe, as well as paranoia. She does not have my invite to crash in my bed and wake up alive.
When she's done talking, she says goodnight and hangs up. It's the morning. Is Matt drugging her? I haven't spoken to him nor paid him.
The amount of pressure I'm under to fix my problems is moderate. My need to let them get worse breaks the imaginary scale. There is something wonderful about triggering the inner volatile core of yourself into erupting. People bide their anger constantly. Take most patients who threaten to harm others for example. Or humans who drink their anxieties away. Nothing gets resolved. That is the point of self destruction, to experience the worst and start over again.
The rest of the morning before returning to work is spent snorting coke to sober myself from the opiate high I used to ward away the effective stimulants from earlier. I watch the news as well. Information no one is going to use in their everyday lives gets spat at me through the screen; this includes updates on celebrity marriages and news about neo pop music. I end up sitting through about thirty minutes of this superficial channel before I realize I must go.
Once it's time to leave the house, a sick feeling hits me. I have sunk so low by relapsing and going mad. The day I acted on my declining mental health by using should've sounded an alarm in my brain that things weren't alright. There is no going back now, for my natural propensities have taken over my moral conscience and that will not change for awhile. Nothing is worth it.