Falling Into the Void: The Needle’s Lullaby
Mia’s studio smelled of turpentine and desperation, canvases leaning like tombstones against the walls. At twenty-five, she’d been a rising star, gallery shows, a scholarship, her paintings vivid with color and chaos. But the colors had dulled, the deadlines loomed, and the blank canvas stared back like an accusation. That’s when she found it, heroin, a friend’s casual offer at a party. “Just once,” she’d thought, the needle’s prick a sharp kiss on her arm. The rush came fast, a velvet wave that melted the anxiety, flooded her mind with molten light. She painted that night, wild strokes, a masterpiece born in hours. The high was a muse, a lover, a god. She sat now, months later, in the same dim room, syringe in hand, chasing that first glow. The world outside faded, Brooklyn’s horns, her landlord’s knocks, drowned by the needle’s lullaby. It promised peace, and Mia believed it, not seeing the void it carved beneath her feet.
The Golden Spiral
Days blurred into weeks, then months. The high wasn’t just relief now, it was power. Mia felt invincible, her brush a wand, her veins a river of gold. She’d shoot up and paint, the heroin lifting her above the mundane, bills, hunger, the roommate who’d moved out after finding her stash. Galleries called less, but she didn’t care; the art was for her now, a secret communion with the drug. She’d sit cross-legged on the floor, needle tracks blooming like dark flowers up her arms, and lose herself in the spiral. Hours vanished, sometimes she’d wake with paint on her face, a half-finished canvas glowing in the lamplight. But the golden haze demanded more. One hit became two, then three, the dose climbing as the euphoria dimmed. She pawned her easel, then her laptop, trading pieces of her life for powder. The spiral tightened, and Mia didn’t see it, not yet, just felt the thrill, the lie that she could stop anytime.
The Void’s Embrace
The studio wasn’t a studio anymore, just a cave of shadows and trash. Paint tubes lay crushed, canvases mildewed in the corner, the air thick with sweat and rot. Mia shivered on a stained mattress, her body a map of need, bones sharp under sallow skin, eyes sunken like bruised moons. The high wasn’t gold now; it was gray, a fleeting whisper that left her colder each time. She’d shoot up in the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a stranger, matted hair, trembling hands, a ghost where the artist had been. The crash came hard, hours of nausea, chills that rattled her teeth, a mind screaming for more. She’d crawl to her dealer, a wiry man named Dex, trading crumpled bills or stolen trinkets for a baggie. Back home, the needle was her tether, but the void grew wider. Friends stopped calling, her phone dead, her world shrinking to this room. Addiction wasn’t a muse anymore, it was a jailer, and Mia was its prisoner, too deep to see the bars.
The Edge of Nothing
Winter bit through the cracked window, frost glazing the floor. Mia hadn’t painted in weeks, her hands shook too much, her mind a fog of want. She’d hit bottom before, she thought, overdoses that left her gasping, nights she’d woken in alleys, but this was different. The last baggie sat empty, Dex wouldn’t front her more, and the pawn shop had nothing left to take. She curled into herself, the withdrawal a beast clawing her insides, sweat, vomit, a heartbeat that stuttered like a broken drum. She saw flashes, her mom’s face, a childhood dog, a gallery opening where she’d smiled for photos. They mocked her now, memories of a life she’d burned away. She fumbled for a bent spoon, a lighter, anything, but the room was bare. The void wasn’t just inside anymore, it was everything. She rocked, whispering, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” a lie to no one. Addiction had stripped her bare, left her teetering on the edge of nothing, and she couldn’t climb back, not alone, not like this.
The Silent Plea
The clock ticked past three, a faint glow seeping through the blinds. Mia lay still, breath shallow, the cold seeping into her bones. She’d stopped shaking, but not from relief, just exhaustion, a body too tired to fight. The needle lay beside her, dry and useless, a relic of the hell she’d built. She thought of calling someone, her mom, a friend, 911, but her voice was gone, swallowed by the void. She’d heard of rehab, of meetings, but they felt like fairy tales, too far from this concrete tomb. Addiction was a gravity she couldn’t defy, pulling her deeper each time she swore she’d quit. She saw it now, the lie of control, the trap she’d walked into with open eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, a silent plea she couldn’t shape into words. The dawn crept closer, indifferent, and Mia lay there, alive but lost, a heartbeat echoing in the void. She needed help, needed out, but the phone stayed silent, the door unopened. Addiction’s hell held her tight, a dangerous, relentless beast, and escape felt like a dream she couldn’t reach.
Falling Into the Void - Mia’s Poem
Verse 1
Mia’s brush once danced, a vivid flame,
Canvas bold with her rising name,
A needle’s kiss, a friend’s soft dare,
The rush blooms warm, a golden glare,
Art and heroin, a fleeting pair.
Verse 2
The high ignites, her veins turn gold,
Colors spill from a mind unbound,
Joints and parties, a muse takes hold,
The world dissolves, her fears unwound,
She paints through nights, a tale retold.
Verse 3
The studio dims, a mildewed cave,
Paint dries hard, her hands betray,
The dose climbs steep, a hollow crave,
Pawned dreams fund the needle’s play,
Addiction hums, her soul its slave.
Verse 4
Tracks bloom dark, her arms a map,
The high turns gray, a fleeting snap,
Shivers rack her frame, a bitter cost,
Dex deals death in bags she’s lost,
The void creeps in, a tightening trap.
Verse 5
Mattress sags, the air grows stale,
Withdrawal bites, a trembling wail,
Ghosts of mom, of light, appear,
A stranger’s face in cracked veneer,
She whispers “fine,” a frail exhale.
Verse 6
Winter bites, the floor turns ice,
No baggie left, no warm device,
The crash descends, a shivering hell,
A mind too weak to ring a bell,
Addiction’s chains, a cold device.
Verse 7
The edge looms close, a faint collapse,
A pulse too slow, a breath that gaps,
She rocks, she pleads, no sound takes flight,
The void’s embrace, a endless night,
Help’s a word she can’t grasp.
Verse 8
Dawn seeps gray, she’s still alive,
A tear falls free, a will to strive,
The needle’s song, a haunting strain,
A hell she knows, a deep refrain,
Trapped in void, too frail to thrive.
