Unlike most junkies, they were lucky. The music and films meant money. A stream of royalty cheques, alleviated any supply problems, and provided all the trimmings of a privileged life. No need to be on the streets. No reason to steal. No cause to worry about the next taste, or the one after that. Suppliers were always on hand. Despite this, they were junkies, and I came in second by a long way.
They loved me, but they loved the junk more. I had everything a child could want. Everything that is, except parents. High fashion, cutting edge, heroin chic, the press said. Never showed the ugly side, the sordid underbelly. The hours wasted, the days lost. Too strung out to do anything. Too high to care. No conversation, hugs, smiles, glances. Even a boo in the face had zero effect. Absent, except in the brief periods between when the drugs wore off and the craving began. That’s my memory. That’s my childhood, and that is why I left.
They called me back. They pleaded. I found it hard not to listen. I would believe their promises, and I would go back. Wishing it would be different, knowing it wouldn’t. The cycle repeated. The word rehab, was just a word. An expensive holiday, nothing more. The pain would become too great to stay.
After leaving and returning far too many times, I left, and forced myself to ignore their pleas. I was, with much effort, able to shake off the bonds and begin my own life. I cut them off. Now, many years later, the pain has faded into a memory. I have my own family, my own children. We share laughter, hugs kisses, sadness and tears. We love. We live.
I read the headline again. “Rock star couple, victim of tainted drugs”. Panic wells up from deep within. Gulping lungfuls of air, I begin sobbing unstoppably. All the years, believing they were dead to me, and only now do I really know.
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333 words written for Trifecta Challenge: Week 101, incorporating the word boo:
