Cold Turkey

He sat in his room, covered in sweat, shaking uncontrollably. All he could think about was that next high, or about the last one. How long had it been? He looked around his room until he saw what he was looking for, sitting on his bedside table. The black, empty capsule, cracked in half, stared at him mockingly, as if to say "Ha! You're too late." It hadn't even been a day. Still, he was overcome by an overwhelming urge to find another pill. This desire possessed the man entirely, and he blacked out. 
He awoke on the floor of his tiny, one-room apartment. The pills were scattered around him, covering the floor; all broken, all empty. He was soaked in sweat, and he stepped into his tiny shower. The door shut behind and the water enveloped him. No matter how hot he turned the water up, the shivers would not go away. He walked out of the bathroom, dressed, but still shivering,still panicking. Then, as if by pure miracle, he saw something that made his heart leap. A green pill on his bed. Not the black one's he desired so strongly but a pill nonetheless. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the small metal circle set above the vein on his arm. It clicked open and the green pill dropped in. Immediately he felt his muscles relax and the shivers subside. He lay on his bed. breathing normally. He took a second to reflect on himself. The ports were implemented soon after Xanoxine had first been introduced. A legal drug that had no side-effects they had said. Easy, safe, fun! Little had everyone known that it was the most addictive substance known to man. The ports made the little pills more effective, easier to take. Of course this caused a panic. First it was outlawed, but then people started dying. Then the government fell. The monetary system, now obsolete, had fallen as well.  His little reverie ended when the little metal circle hissed and the green pill popped out. Empty like all the others. There was no chance that he would find another pill like that in his room. He called his friend. Well, friend was generous. He had never seen this man's face, nor been told his real name. He solely knew him as X. He ran the operation near the man's home. The one problem with this new barter system was that he didn't have anything to trade. All his furniture was long gone, along with most of his possessions. A glint of metal caught his eye. Of course! The watch! It was a relic, analog, and separated from the arm. Nowadays everyone had the time blinking on their  wrists always. He grabbed the watch and ran out of the room fast as he could. X was waiting for him at the corner. His face covered with the same mask he always wore. Black with a yellow X emblazoned on it. The man, panting, ran up to him and showed him the watch without even saying anything. X held up three fingers. "Three?' the man said indignantly, "This thing is worth at least 10!" X paused, then reluctantly held up five fingers."C'mon, this is an heirloom!" X paused, sighed, and reached into his stained, torn overcoat. He pulled out a new pill. Not a single color like all the rest. Yellow and black stripes. A warning? Ignoring it, the man grabbed the pill. Looking at it with both wonder, joy, and hate, he rushed  back into his tiny, drab, flat. The pills clattered as his feet made contact with them. He fell onto his bed, adrenaline pumping through his system. He pushed the pill into his port. It hissed closed. His body convulsed, writhing. Eyes wide open, staring. Why did he not listen? Why didn't he quit? The man's body, frozen in a grotesque position, goes cold. 

#asylumswag

Why am I here? Yeah, I know. People ponder the big questions in life, about existence, life, the world and all the connotations that it brings. The only question on my mind is "Why am I here?" Literally, why this room? This slate-colored room of concrete. Why? Deep down, if I really think about it. I know the answer. It all goes back to about a month ago. Or was it yesterday? Who knows anymore. The concept of time is beginning to escape me. My name is Edward Patraglia. But ever since I can remember, everybody's called me Elvis. I can't remember why that started, or why Elvis. Then again, nowadays I can't remember much. Anyway, back to my concrete cube. Why am I here? Why me? WHY? Again, the more I think about what happened in the past, the more it seems to coagulate inside my head. Court. Everyone was wearing suits, I remember seeing and hearing my name a lot. I remember twelve somber people looking at me with what seemed like pity. Now I'm stuck in this cube. The only link I have left to the outside world is my twitter feed. #whyamihere. It seems unfair, but maybe that's just because I just can't remember anything. #whathappened. I've stopped wondering, and now I've pretty much just accepted that I will be here until I die. I black out.

I wake up and experience the strange sensation of not being able to move my arms. What was this white thing that stopped me from moving? WHY? A burly security guard looks down at me. He tells me a story of how I broke out of my cell and almost ripped a nurse's throat out. Me? I don't remember doing that at all... Is that why I'm here? Did i do it before? The guard sticks a needle into my arm and blackness takes me again. When I wake up again the straight jacket is off, but next to me sits a small paper cup filled with pills. So many shapes and colors. A solitary sticky note sits next to it. Take Immediately, it reads in immaculate handwriting. I take the pills quickly. My twitter feed sits next to me. I see posts I can't remember. #therapy. #gettingbetter. The last one on the feed, dated yesterday, catches in my throat. #insane. Me? Did I write that? Am I insane? The only answer that even remotely makes sense to me is Yes. #Darkness. #Acceptance. #Insanity.

Names

My name has always defined me more than the regular person. No one else gets the name James Norman Kranzdorf. No one else has that gift. I call it a gift but for as long as I can remember as soon as i break out my full name, all it is met with is snickers and giggles. Simplicity has always appealed to me. First it was James. Then it got shorter; Jim. Finally I found the name that defines me. A singular letter. J. Jay. I've been going by Jay for years, and that defines me more than most things. It sets me apart, because very few people go by Jay.