The Needle

Hubie, having been clean for six years, continued to tell S.C. about his dark days as a heroin addict. Discussing how he sometimes shot up with other addicts, he noted, “There’s one thing about some of these disease control centers that really irks me. They basically say it’s okay to inject drugs as long as you thoroughly clean any shared or used needles. When you’re a junkie, you don’t care about cleaning needles.”
He flashed back to the night he and another addict were cooking heroin in an abandoned house. As the other addict injected into his arm, Hubie realized that he had forgotten to bring a needle of his own. The other addict set his needle down near the candle and shakily arose to his feet.
Hubie pointed to the syringe. “Are you done with that?”
“Uh-huh,” slurred the other addict. He took a couple steps before vomiting.
Hubie took the hypodermic syringe, the needle still wet with blood from being in someone else’s arm less than a minute ago, and filled it with the heroin from his blackened spoon. The veins in his arms, fingers, and legs needed a rest due to being stuck with needles so many times, so he methodically stuck the needle into his neck and injected the heroin into it.
In the present, Hubie added, “You don’t care about eating, you don’t care about taking care of yourself, and you don’t care about the tears and pleas of friends and loved ones. You don’t even care about life.”
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