Methamphetamines

Once, a tweeker I barely knew watched over my car and belongings after an ambulance took me to the hospital during an overdose.

He was waiting for me there reading one of my books, The Visionist, hours later in the 90 degree heat.

When he asked how I was, all I could do was cry. He reached out and hugged me, and I cried on his shoulder in bitter despair. Drug addiction was taking its toll on my life.

I drove him to a supermarket where he wanted to go before saying goodbye. I told him he could keep the book when he asked if he could borrow it.

It's an intriguing story about a young girl abused by her alcoholic father who is taken in by a primitive religious sect.

It seemed strange at the time to be reading about such pious people of faith while snorting lines of methamphetamine. It also seems strange that this stranger, who was the kind of addict whose mind was so damaged and affected by dope he didn't seem human anymore, would show me more kindness, empathy, and love in one afternoon than my boyfriend has in 16 years.

Tonight I am staying with my aunt. I've got to figure out how to escape for good.