Withdrawal

The intensity continues to grow and its reach is spreading like a wild fire. I lie here in the dark trying to occupy my thoughts with something else. Anything else will do, just as long as I'm not focused on this pain that is no longer limiting itself to atomic pulses emanating from deep inside my surgically repaired left knee. Now, sly serpent that it is, El Dolor has slithered its way up the side of my leg, across the gluteus and is picking at the sciatic nerve in my lower back like he's Bo Diddly at a Juke Joint. I'd scream if I thought it would help. Audibly, that is. I'm sure my insides have been absorbing my repressed screams for hours now since the last of my meds wore off. It's downright excruciating.

I won't even look in its direction. If I were better at ambling around my condo at this point, I would've moved it off my desk and into another room. If I roll over on to my right side, it is within arm's reach. I look out the window instead. There's nothing to see, but that's where my gaze is fixed. While re-runs of Family Guy are on in the background, I'm turned away from the television hoping that the complex math problems I'm making up and subsequently trying to solve in my head will keep me from thinking about it. I was rubbing the area between my knee and upper thigh, but stopped when I noticed I was all but scratching. It's not that warm in here, but now I'm sweating. Last week, as I rode out the heat wave from within these walls, this would've been understandable but it's just a typical cool Oakland evening right now. I'd be surprised if it were more than 62 degrees outside. I pat at my brow with the top sheet on my bed and try to get back to my math problem.

Finally, I'm so curious that I can no longer fight the urge to glance over my right shoulder at it. It's smiling at me and it's not just any smile. It more closely resembles the wry, very evil, toothy grin of the Joker knowing that I am growing so weak that I will soon succumb. Slowly, I turn my head back toward the window. Its smile changes to a smirk as it must've figured out a way to channel all of its energy to telepathically remote control the television's volume down a few notches. I can no longer really hear what Peter, Brian and Stewy are muttering about. My back is still to all of them.

I'm beginning to re-evaluate my feelings toward Michael Imperioli's Chris Maltisanti or Chris Rock's Pookie, having previously lumped them in the bag with the weak and undisciplined. I can hear Omar Gooding's Demetrius Harris from that all too real portrait of life in Pro Football, pleading with himself to muster up some strength before giving in to The Grip. I start to pray, even though I rarely pray directly for myself, that this pain will go away.

It's laughing at me know. I can hear it. That smile turned smirk has now erupted into maniacal laughter, Vincent Price style. At this, I actually get up off the bed, pick up the suddenly very verbose orange bottle of the narcotic pain killer Norco and hobble into the other room with it in tow. I slam it down violently on the counter of the bathroom and close the door behind me when I leave. It knows I'll be back though. El dolor is still manning his post and will continue to do his number on me. Eventually I'll give in.

El Dolor actually turned it on a little too strong as my body must've been so overwhelmed that I actually fell asleep. That was only 45 minutes ago though. I'm awake again now. El Dolor is still here and you know who is still over there in the bathroom and I can still hear him.