One More Hit
By Dan Stein

          I'm dying. I can feel my own bile lodged in my throat, choking me. He knows it too. He's just standing over me now, looking into my glazing eyes. I can't tell if there's any pity in his eyes, but his interest is apparent even now. He's a handsome man; at least I have something nice to look at as I gag on my own vomit. I wish I could move and expel it, but my body isn't cooperating. I'm not certain what's causing that. It might be the drugs, but I don't feel high anymore. I'd always heard you weren't aware of what was happening when you ODed. Everything is oddly clear now though; my mind feels sharp even as my body fights a losing battle.

          "Sharon," the man speaks to me. I can't remember where he came from. He certainly wasn't in the apartment when we were shooting up. I don't see my friends around anywhere either. I wonder briefly if I'm in a hospital and maybe the man is a doctor. He isn't dressed like one though, and the ceiling looks familiar. I think I'm still in my friend’s apartment. Hard to tell though, I don't usually go around staring at ceilings. So who is this man and where are my friends? That's what I want to ask, but I can only gurgle. God, my lungs are starting to ache.

          "Sharon," he says again. And then it’s almost as though he's speaking directly into my mind. Sharon. As he does, it seems that time stops. The gagging sensation is gone. My mind sharpens again as the pain passes. I try to speak again, but nothing happens. With your thoughts, dear, his voice comes again, sounding bemused. So I think it instead.

          I concentrate on these words (who are you?) and for a second I feel dizzy.

          I am your hope, he responds. Your life.

          I don't understand, I think. I'm dying, aren't I?

          Yes, Sharon, his voice rings in my mind. You are. The heroin in that little needle that you and your friends shared was bad. Very bad. Your friends have all died as a result; even now they're lying in puddles of their own juices like the filth they are. It doesn't have to be that way for you. You are better than them. I've chosen you. All you have to do is accept me.

          I wonder if this man is some kind of angel. Maybe he's a devil in disguise come to offer me false salvation for my soul like I've read in the story of Faust. Maybe he's even God or Jesus manifesting like I heard about in Sunday school. But, it couldn't be that. Things like that only happen to saints and prophets, not druggies and sinners like me.

          I'm not your God, Sharon, he thinks to me. I'm not a vague concept that fools cling to or an outdated object of worship. I am real. I am here. And I can give you life, if you accept it.

          I think, I still don't understand what's happening. One moment I'm drowning in my own sick and then I seem to have stepped out of time to talk to you with telepathy? It makes no sense.

          It doesn't have to, his voice is sounding agitated. You can accept my gift or you can die. It’s as simple as that. As though in response to this I start to feel the gagging sensation in my throat again. My lungs are one fire for a moment and my mind grows blurry. And then it's gone again. It wouldn't do to be rude to the man who can save your life, now would it, Sharon? he says.

          I'm still confused. He said he wasn't any kind of supreme being, but how could he stop the drugs that are coursing through me? Killing me? How has he drawn me out of myself? How can I be talking to him? It occurs to me that this might just be another effect of the OD; that maybe this is all in my mind.

          I assure you, he says. I am real. As if to prove this, I see him bend down, his face near mine. A look of revulsion crosses his romanesque features as he smells the stink that must be coming from me. Then he brings his hand up and touches my forehead. I feel a jab of pain, and it takes me a second to realize that he's just cut me with something, maybe his fingernail. Blood rolls into my eyes as his face raises away, still looking at me. Do you believe it now? he asks.

          I do believe it, but it still doesn't feel right. There's just something wrong about this man, handsome though he is. He's just...eerie. I see his face grow dark as I think that, and again the pain of the OD, the choking sensation, washes over me. It's pure agony now. I can't be far from death. My lungs are no longer just on fire. Now they feel like they've been boiled in my chest. Just as I feel that I'm going to pass out from the pain, it ceases again.

          All at once, in response to the pain, I wish I could have another hit. I remember the rush as it would hit my body and mind, and remembering brings lust. I know it’s wrong but I just want one more hit before I die. I have to have it. I don't care what the hell this guy is, as long as he can give that to me. Can you...I try to concentrate, but it's getting hard now. Can you give me that feeling?

          He smiles. It appears predatory, and I notice his canine teeth are abnormally long. I don't care! I don't care if he is some kind of devil! Just give me the pain and the pleasure just one more time! I'm gagging and my chest is about to explode, but for God's sake just give me that one last hit!

          What I can give you is much better than any drug, he says. It’s rush beats heroin, and it makes you stronger. But, you have to live to get it. And you have to live by my rules. Do you accept?

          YES! I scream in my mind. For God's sake, yes! Just give it to me, heroin, something better! I don't give a damn, I just need it now! I'm in so much pain!

          Looking triumphant, he reaches down and places his hands on my sides. He rolls me over and time comes back. The vomit falls from my mouth and I can breathe again. It hurts badly and I'm coughing. I still can't feel the rest of my body, but at least I can breathe. The pain is too much for me to dwell on anything else for long though. I need relief. I need whatever this man plans to give me. I hope it's another hit. Sickening though it is, I really do.

          "Now," I cough and brace for the needle. Instead of one needle prick, I feel two. Whatever it is pierces my neck, right into my jugular. Good, that'll get it into my system quickly. I wait for the rush. I want it so bad that I try to trick my brain into feeling it. Because of this need it takes me awhile to realize nothing is going in through those holes, rather something is being drawn out. I'm starting to feel weaker and then it hits me what this man is.

          He is no God, no demon. He is no angel. But, it's too late now, I've already told him yes. And he still has a promise to keep to me. He still has to give me one more rush. I don't try to fight what he's doing to me; it doesn't matter what it is anyway. I've been through worse.

          When I feel like I'm about to pass out, he rolls me over again. I look up into his face and I see that his mouth is covered in blood. I'm certain of it now. He is a vampire. I don't really care. This all may still be a part of my high. It may be a really bad high; but it certainly isn't the worst. Not by far.

          I see him cut into the wrist of his right hand with the fingernail of his left forefinger. He places his torn wrist against my mouth and I cough again, weakly. "Drink," he says, and I do.

          All at once my body starts convulsing. It feels as though the OD was only taking a pause. My chest tightens up and screams at me. I try to scream back, but no sound passes my lips. My throat feels raw and the taste in my mouth is coppery. My stomach feels like a hot coal has just been dropped into it and my limbs, so numb before, are now alive with agony.

          It grows worse with each passing second. The pain doubles, then triples, then I am no longer conscious of anything so trivial as numbers. I can't stand it! The feeling of the OD was terrible, but this is worse. But none of it, none of the pain is quite as bad as what I see when I look up. He's staring down at me, still smiling, still streaked with my blood. I can see ecstasy in his eyes. My pain is his rapture.

          Then I fall into black and my mind stops.

          And starts again. I feel amazing. My eyes see everything. My nose takes in every smell. The coppery taste that repulsed me before, is now nothing short of ambrosia. I can feel the small changes of the wind rolling over my every pore. He reaches out and touches my arm and my mind reels that such a simple thing could bring such bliss. I am god-like for a moment, then it passes and I feel hollow again. Just the same as I always have.

          "It is amazing isn't it?" he says. He's still smiling, but the rapture has faded from his eyes.

          It takes me a moment to answer. I'm still shocked from the feeling. "Yes," I finally say. "Is it like that every time?"

          "Whenever blood is drank and life is taken," he confirms.

          "More," I say, unable to control myself. It's sick, I think. I'm talking about killing people and drinking their blood. It's unspeakable, horrifying. I try to convince myself that what I want to do is wrong. As wrong as the heroin was before it, a drug that feeds on death in it’s own right. I can't. It was too good. "More," I repeat.

          "One more hit," he says and laughs.

          I think, Yeah. One more hit.