I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real...

    It happens, the moment I feel that bag in my hand; the feelings of anxiety and longing to leave and start my day, my night, my binge, whatever.  The moment I jump in the car, it all becomes too natural, like it's second nature.  

    My hands grasp a card and a hard surface, and I begin to crush the white rock.  The pile was enormous, it would have to do. This isn't amateur hour.  I left chunks, I always felt it hit me differently that way, not to mention I didn't have the patience to sit there being precise. Why should I rush? Time was, in fact, money. 

    It all seems too familiar, the pink straw in my hand, damp and squished, as if I had been holding it for hours.  Those chunks I didn't have time to crush up hit my nose, my brain, the back of my throat.  For a moment I stare up through the sunroof.  

    The screaming in my head stopped.  My storm was calmed, I could do nothing but listen to the silence.