At first, you felt everything.
    Pain.
    The slow pinch of a silver-lined prick, left by one poor, hazy, last minute decision you were supposed to regret.
    The tight, rigid grip in which your stomach was held, clenching and relaxing at the worst of times. The aftermath of your "regret."
    The steel-toed kick to deadened, gray senses, signaling life to cycle once again, leaving your "regret" nothing but a cloudy memory.
    And of course, the sharp, thick pounding that snaked its way around your throat and temples, pulsing against papery skin, constricting hectic thoughts and wheezing breaths. A consequence you did nothing but deserve.
    You felt it all, every last inch of blinding, choking pain. All from something you chose to do, something you couldn't seem to stop doing.
    But the pleasure. The pure, unsoiled, kiss of pleasure that would hit your ashen skin, washing you in waves of warm, tender joy, sinking down inside coiled muscles, melting into a much needed escape.
    The unsolicited happiness it brought you, a ray of gold that would dance around freckled features, eyes trailing along as a smile tugged at numb lips.
    The unbothered ignorance it folded into you, mind swept away by whispered promised and tantalizing touches. The same, silver-lined touch that had just brought you so much:
    Pain.
    You remember it.
    The late nights, sky void of stars, your pupils as dark as the world, quickly growing to become just as large. The early mornings, unusually quiet, lacking life. Much like you, too far gone to hold even the smallest spark.
    The only spark you could ever muster was inside, locked in a dense, clouded room you were only able to reach when your body was limp and your face was soft. Any trace of personality wiped clean by the solid-turned-fluid that often ran marathons in your bloodstream.
    That spark made you feel everything.
    Freed by that lovely, tender fluid, releasing your tainted, desperate glimmer. Traveling straight towards mist-laden eyes, projecting beautiful ripples of bright, illuminating color. Mixing together with the real world. The one that stood outside of your radiant, blazing brain.
Reds and blues would bleed into each other. Pastel yellows and minty greens tugged at frayed ends of reality, tip toeing on the edges of imagination. Senses became overwhelmed, buried beneath artificial tranquility, a peaceful ignorance that shielded you from cold, gaunt truths.
Truths that held dirty bathroom linoleum, rubber bands wrapped tightly around biceps, stolen, empty needles, and pulsing, yet nearly nonexistent, grips.
You remember that.
You remembered that.
Because now, the vigorous little spark you relied so heavily upon had finally burnt out. Years of over using and abuse leaving your body, mind, and being completely vacant.
Empty.
Dead.
Your heart was slow, not too far from stopping, and for once, just once, you were completely aware of your current situation.
The bathroom tiles, the silver-lined needle, the tightly wound rubber band. You were aware of everything.
And now.
You felt nothing.