winstonwolfe81

[winstonwolfe81]

CHAPTER FOUR: “Pipes, Phantoms, and Prison”

by Benjamin

I lit up in the dark again. The flame trembled like a dying star and kissed the bowl. The rock danced, liquified, hissed like it was angry to be alive. Just like me. I held the hit in like a secret. Like the last truth I had. Let it burn my lungs black. Let it take me somewhere else. And it did. Krista appeared in the doorway, same hoodie she always wore, the one she stole from me the night we first fucked on that rotted-out couch in the barn. She walked in like she owned the place, like she hadn’t left me to rot. Her eyes were hollow, black pits leaking mascara and malice. "Still getting high without me, huh?" she said, like she had every right to ask. “You left,” I croaked, pipe still clenched between two fingers, teeth grinding like I was trying to chew my way out of reality. “You never showed up.” “I had better things to do, baby.” She grinned. That old, slutty, dangerous grin. The one that always meant sex or violence or both. “You were supposed to be my ride-or-die,” I muttered. “I was. You just didn’t realize I picked die first.” The room tilted. She got closer. Her skin was peeling like overcooked meat. Her voice went guttural, glitching like a cassette tape chewed by a Walkman possessed by the devil. “You're already dead, Benjamin. I’m just the echo.” Then the overdose hit. It came fast. Head spun like a slot machine. Chest caved in. Vision pixelated into colors I swear I’ve never seen before. I collapsed. Hit the ground like a dropped marionette. Limbs jerking. Foam at the mouth. Piss soaking my jeans. The demons came next, wearing Krista’s face. Dozens of her. Laughing, moaning, crying, screaming, all at once. Then: black.

FLASHBACK: JAIL. My first week in. Detoxed in a cell with a flickering light and the scent of piss and bleach forever etched into the paint. I was all skin and nerve endings, twitchy as fuck, and full of venom. Two guys jumped me over some sleepers. Said I owed. I didn’t. Didn’t matter. They came at me while I was brushing my teeth. One of them had a sock wrapped around a bar of soap. Prison cliché, but it still cracked like thunder when it hit my jaw. I fought like an animal. Bit one on the neck. Drove my elbow into the other's kidney until he vomited. Didn’t feel like winning. Felt like surviving. Barely. After the guards dragged me out shirt torn, bloodied knuckles, half my tooth on the ground they dumped me in solitary. That concrete tomb. No mattress, just a steel bench and four walls that whispered every regret I’d ever tried to drown. I carved Krista’s name into the wall with a snapped plastic fork, just to remind myself that pain could be art, too. I kept thinking about her arms. The way she’d wrap around me in the cold nights up north, whispering bullshit dreams about escaping to Mexico, or raising goats in BC, or just being fucking clean for once. Lies, all of it. But beautiful ones. And fuck me, I loved them anyway. BACK TO NOW. I woke up on the floor, vomit crusted on my shirt, pants soaked through. My hands trembled as I reached for the pipe again.But it was empty.

Krista sat on the mattress, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from her lip, eyes like headlights on a night you know you’re going to crash. "Try again, baby. Maybe this time you'll stay dead." Krista flicked her cigarette toward me. It landed on my chest, still burning. I didn’t flinch. Pain was old news. But then something shifted. Her voice dropped an octave. The face started to melt, like wax under a heat lamp. Her eyes stayed the same for a moment wide, furious, hollow

but then even those changed. Lighter. Sharper. Cold and blue like a slap in winter. Melissa. Standing where Krista had been, arms crossed, hair pulled back tight in that no nonsense, courtroom ready bun. Still dressed in whatever the hell shame wore. “You should’ve died in there,” she hissed. “No, worse you should’ve stayed.” She stepped closer, and the walls pulsed with the sound of a crying child. Your daughter. That soft whimper of innocence you've only ever heard behind glass or through a phone. “You think she doesn’t know?” Melissa asked, her voice a whip. “You think she can’t feel it? That her father’s nothing but a ghost in a junkie’s skin?” I curled into myself. “I tried,” I muttered. She cut in

“Not hard enough.” The mattress I was lying on vanished, replaced by cold steel. Fluorescent light buzzed above me. I was back in the box solitary. Back in the cage where men go to scream without anyone hearing. My fingers still shook. I looked down bloody knuckles again. A familiar sight. A loop. A curse. And on the wall, right where I carved Krista’s name, was something new: “FATHER.” Scratched in next to it, deeper, angrier. My own handwriting, but I don’t remember doing it. My memory’s just confetti now twisted and wet and blowing away one shard at a time. I sat there for hours. Or maybe days. Melissa’s voice still whispering in my head. You failed. You’re filth. You left her. You don’t get to come back from this.

[winstonwolfe81]

CHAPTER THREE:

“Stil Tweaking, Still Breathing”

by Benjamin

One week out. Seven days of scorched lungs, dry heaves, and self-hate dressed up like euphoria. I didn’t ease back into it. I cannonballed. Straight into the smoke, straight into the madness. First hit was in the parking lot of the halfway house. I didn’t even wait to take off my ID band. The stem met my lips before sunlight hit my face. I watched that first rock melt like it was Christ’s body. I inhaled salvation. I exhaled sin. Missy was gone by then. Impounded. They took her like they take everything else. The cops, the jidges, the crowns, the courts, the whole fucking system, like greedy little termites chewing through my ribs. She was more than a car. She was leather seats and memories. The sound of her purring engine was more comforting than Krista’s voice ever was. And Krista? She was supposed to come in by train. We planned it. We always had plans. We never had follow through. She said she loved me. She said she’d wait. She said she’d be there. But now it’sme and the pipe. Me and the static. Me and the noise behind my eyeballs that never stops, never fucking stops. It’s four in the morning, or maybe four in the afternoon. Time’s not real. I haven’t eaten in five days. I pissed in a bottle twelve hours ago and forgot to empty it. There’s a crust of something human on the mattress in the corner, and the guy I’m crashing with keeps whispering Krista’s name in his sleep like he stole my memories and wears them better than me. And maybe he does. I look in the mirror and see a creature. Teeth like tombstones. Eyes like boiling tar. Skin peeling like a sunburned lie. I smile, and even my reflection flinches. I’ve jerked off eight times today and I still feel hard. Still feel empty. I called Krista’s number with my last five bucks of phone credit and it rang once before disconnecting. That one ring was louder than any scream I’ve ever made. And then came the crash. Not the emotional kind. I mean the real, gut-sickening, face-numbing, dopamine dump. The one that takes your bones and fills them with cement. The one that makes you look at a ceiling fan and wonder how much weight it could hold. I curled up in the bathtub fully clothed. No water. Just tile and terror. I saw her. Krista. Naked. Crying. Holding Missy’s keys in one hand and a noose in the other. She mouthed something maybe “forgive me” or maybe “fuck you.” Doesn’t matter. She wasn’t real. Or maybe she was. I don't know anymore. I reached for the pipe. Lit it with shaking hands. Held the hit in until my eyes watered and my vision started pixelating. Still tweaking. Still breathing. Still not dead. But God, I think I finally understand why people don’t come back from this. And I don’t know if I want to.

[winstonwolfe81]

CHAPTER TWO: "Crank, Cum, and Consequence"

by Benjamin

It started in the middle of nowhere...radiator hose blown, steam pissing out from under the hood of Missy, my ride or die Volvo. I was stranded.

[winstonwolfe81]

CHAPTER ONE: "Glass, Gas, and Godlessness"

by Benjamin

I hadn’t slept in six days. Not real sleep. Just brief collapses of consciousness where my eyes stayed open and my soul tried to slip out through my teeth. I’ve been on a one man honeymoon with crystal meth since I walked out those jail doors a week ago. No Krista waiting at the gate. No Missy in the lot. Just me, the cold air, and a head full of ghosts. They took my car Missy, my old Volvo. Impounded. Gone. She got cuffed the same day I did. I lost two girls that night. Only one had an engine. Krista was supposed to come in by train, said she’d make the trip once I was out. But days passed. Nothing. Just silence where her voice should’ve been. The kind of silence that screams. I’m in a roach motel now. Cheap place with stained walls and a stiffer bed than a coffin. It smells like feet, bleach, and defeat. There’s no naked girl on the mattress, just the phantom of her, burned into the sheets of my memory. Her laugh still echoes in my ears, soft and cruel. She’s everywhere in this room. And nowhere. The stem glows like a devil’s halo in my hand. Every hit brings her closer. Every exhale pushes her further. I light up again. And again. And again. Maybe this one will bring her back. My jaw is grinding concrete. My fingers won’t stop twitching. My cock hasn’t gone soft since Tuesday. Meth doesn’t let you mourn like a normal man. It turns grief into obsession. Desire into punishment. I jerked off until I came tears, thinking about her on top of me, hands in my hair, calling me baby, even when she was lying. There’s a madness that comes with this high...when the line between memory and hallucination blurs, when you don’t know if you’re sweating from sorrow or speed. I dance in the dark, alone, to basslines pounding out of a busted Bluetooth speaker. Filthy tech house. Disgusting drops. My kind of gospel. I keep looking at the door. Like maybe she’ll walk through it. Like maybe this is all a sick test and she’s just waiting to forgive me on the other side of this binge. But the only thing that comes through is withdrawal and rot and that ticking voice in my head that sounds like hers when she’s sad. I still love her. That’s the real fucked up part. Even now. Especially now. There’s no redemption here. No lesson. No arc. Just a man with a scorched throat, a heart full of broken glass, and a pipe that’s still warm. I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing because I’m the only one left who remembers what we were. What I was. What I lost. This isn’t a comeback story. This is a confession. No edits. No apologies. Just the truth.

CHAPTER TWO: "Crank, Cum, and Consequence" Coming soon.

[winstonwolfe81]

Introducing my own personal hell by Benjamin

Five months in the belly of the beast. Jail. Not prison... not yet, but enough time behind bars to kill the last good part of me and let the animal out for a smoke. If you’re looking for a redemption story, click the fuck off. This isn’t that. This is blood on concrete, dick in hand, teeth grinding, heart howling. This is me... Benjamin, meth freak, deviant, pervert, career fuck-up with a bad attitude and worse intentions. I got out and found the world had already moved on. Krista my kryptonite, my last thread of grace gone. No note. No goodbye. Just silence and the kind of emptiness you don’t write poems about, because it’s too ugly to be pretty and too real to be romantic. She left while I was locked up and dopesick, dreaming about her skin and the way she used to say my name like it meant something. The Volvo? My coffin on wheels? Gone too. Everything I built, everything I ruined, everything I loved, pissed away like the last good high. Now I’m homeless, high, and horny. still smoking meth like it’s oxygen, still jerking off in public bathrooms like some depraved priest of the dark church of dopamine. No job. No plan. Just the itch in my veins and a head full of ghosts. You think I’m exaggerating? I once got head in a Dollar Tree parking lot while holding a warrant and watching a raccoon eat a dead pigeon. That’s where I’m at. But here’s the thing: I write. I write because it’s the only thing that still listens when I scream. And this blog? This cursed, godless temple of digital confession. it’s my last megaphone before I burn out or blow up. So welcome to the fire. No filters. No apologies. Just me, Benjamin. Unwashed, uncut, and un-fucking-hinged. Let’s get weird.