A Brief Cycle

You’re gone, and I’m left behind, abandoned among the empty boxes, wadded paper, and discarded needles, no longer wanted or needed. I bear your marks heavily on my scarred and broken legs. My arms hang, futile, at odd angles by my sides. I can no longer withstand the slightest pressure - hold no one and no body. My purpose was once clear.

I’ve seen so much, felt the touch of many, and been used steadily. I remember the parties, where booze and drugs flowed freely, often coating me from top to bottom. Junkie after junkie came to me, seeking sweet repose. You didn’t care. I was there, after all, to be used.

And I remember vividly the violence... the rages that sent me skidding across the room, solidly meeting the innocent wall. The time you threw me out the window, the canopy below breaking my fall.

I had thought that would be it. But you found me when you got out of jail and brought me back. You even cleaned me up in one of your lucid moments, looking at me as though you’d never really seen me before. I could sense your good intentions. You had put your old life behind you and begun again, walking straight, working honestly… living a right life.

You held out for a few days. Do you remember? When you came back you straightened the rods and re-hung the curtains, leaving them open to the world and the light. No more hiding, you said. No more darkness, you said. What went wrong?

I know. I saw. I watched the cravings creep within the shadows. I heard them whisper to you softly, seductively. They wafted memories of that first high, the best high, the high to beat all highs, and promised that you’d feel that way again.  When they stroked your skin, raising goose bumps and your desire, I knew they had you, and I knew it was the end.

I watched as you prepared your needle and slid its tip into your neck. You smiled at first, but that quickly changed. The convulsions danced you across the room, destroying me as I watched.

You’re quiet now, and I’ll wait for the quiet to reach me too.

NOTE: I first wrote this several years ago. A friend challenged me to write a story from the point of view of a piece of furniture. Can you guess what my inspiration was?