Withdrawal

*Trigger warning: addiction. If you are triggered by stories of addiction, please do not read this, as it may be distressing for you. This is a work of fiction, however, I write this with a heavy heart, calling upon my own experiences*

It was sharp, unexpected, and it cut right through him. Alberto was at his computer, writing like any other day, when he experienced the abdominal pain for the first time. It took him by surprise, and felt like a cold knife had just been shoved right through his gut flesh, twisting its way into the stomach area. He leaned forward and put his hand over the painful area, his irrational mind desperately trying to soothe the pain under the surface. He closed his eyes for a minute or two, although this meant nothing to Alberto, as to him the pain lasted a lifetime. Slowly at first, but then very suddenly, the pain left him. Not one to overthink things, Alberto straightened his posture, removed his hand from his stomach, and continued his work.

His body shivered. He could feel each particle of his skin oscillating at lightning speed, as his body disconnected from his mind. As he sat on his couch, the walls were closing in around him. They seemed to be traveling at him with such violent velocity, but never reaching him. An almighty cold descended upon him as he felt his skin turn pale.

It had been a week since Alberto first felt that sharp pain, and each day since, that pain would return. Each time, the knife was being stuck right in the same part of his gut, now sore from the trauma. He was back at his computer in his living room when the pain returned to him once more with a vengeance. He tried his usual response, which was routine to him now, folding his body forward and putting his hand over the pain, expecting it to go away like it always did. But this time it didn’t. This time it stayed, punishing him for neglecting it for so long, and instead of leaving, the pain grew in intensity constantly. That knife slowly sliding itself further and further into his gut. With each increase in intensity, he believed that the pain could get no worse as he had reached the limit of what he could comprehend pain to be, but each time he came to this conclusion, the pain multiplied once more. In a desperate plea for mercy, he let out an awful cry, squealing for his life.

Still shivering, he left his couch to try and get some food, but on standing, his legs went numb, and instead of the walls racing towards him, he now saw them folding in around him, twirling in a psychedelic wave. As nausea followed him, he decided he was not able to endure this feeling anymore. He ran to the medicine cabinet, hoping that he had missed some. He remembered that at the time, he was determined, angry at the years of poison that the drug had leaked into his body, infecting his mind and destroying his life. The hot-headed manner that possessed him at that moment made him carelessly impulsive as years of shame drove him to action. He had grabbed all those poisonous pills, and in one defining moment, threw them all down the toilet. But maybe he missed something. A tray perhaps, or even just one dose rolling loosely in that cupboard. He rushed to the cupboard and flung it open violently, searching frantically, throwing boxes of outdated medicine on the floor to see more clearly, expecting to find the cure to this hell he had been delivered to. But there was nothing there. In a single moment, all of Alberto’s hopes had burst into a dry cloud of nothingness, and he felt completely empty. As the nausea caught up with him, he threw up on the kitchen floor where he stood.

His doctor was at a loss. She did every test that they could, MIR scan, CT scan, anything they could think of, just to rule out even the smallest improbabilities. Every scan came back negative. She didn’t know what to do for the patient in front of her, who earlier was screaming pain, with the only audible words leaving his lips being “I’m dying”. As he sat there now pacified, his whole body numb from the morphine coursing through his veins, the defeated doctor gave him a prescription for a Zanitophanol. She was hesitant to give it to him; in her heart of hearts she knew it was wrong. She remembered all the lectures at med school about these drugs. How they come from the opioid family, and as they mask the patient’s pain in the short term, and the patient grows a dependency for them, they destroy your body and your mind from the inside out. She knew the risks, but with no other options, defeated, she handed him the menacing piece of prescription paper she had signed, knowing it contained his doom and her innocence. As he began to leave her office, her conscience took control of her for a brief moment, as her lips opened of their own accord and she uttered a nervous “be careful” as he left and closed the door behind him.

Now standing next to his own vomit, his last ounce of strength had left him. His body had shut down in complete shock from the absence of the drug. He involuntarily descended onto his hands and knees to attempt to crawl, but crawling required too much strength. With all hope of life fleeting from his body, his bed was the only thing on his mind, as it possessed the comfort he desired to retire from this world. All he wanted now was to be still and wrapped up in a blanket like a dog. He went down further, putting all his weight onto his forearms, as they gracelessly dragged his body like a rag-doll into the bedroom. He expelled the last of his strength to climb his way into the bed, and as the back of his head hit the cold refreshing pillow, and with the whole world on fire around him, an air of relief overcame him as he closed his eyes.