The shadows engulf her as she sits in the small patch of artificial light. I can see her, the needle full of poison waiting, patiently waiting.
"It's all right" she whispers softly to me. "I'm still the same." Yet her voice rings with hollow promises, honey laced lies, the rage she emits when she is denied.
"I'm not an addict" she screams in my face and I recoil to a corner, agreeing to her demands out of fear, out of unconditional love; a child of twenty three acquiescing to the chaos that will fill her veins and I cry out,
"Mommy, just stop!"
And she replies with veins full and eyes revealing truth,
"I'm not an addict."
She hugs me tight, laughs at my concern, and asks for a little more money, just a little more.
"I just want a little more, honey, just a little more." And for a second I consider refusing, the thought running through my mind like the drug through her veins and I surrender, raise my white flag and hand over the money I don't have to give. She kisses my cheek, calls me