Diary of a Drug Fiend

CHAPTER III THE GRINDING OF THE BRAKES September 9 PETER and I have had a long, nasty quarrel, and I had to pull his hair for him. It broke one of my nails. I’ve let them go very long. I don’t know when I was manicured last. For some reason, they're dry and brittle. I must have them done. I’d send the boy out, but I don’t like the idea of a strange girl coming here. One never knows what may go wrong. It doesn’t really matter, either. The body is merely a nuisance, and it hurts. “So blood wrenches its pain Sardonic through heart and brain.” I am beginning to hate that horrible poem. It haunts me. I don’t know why I should remember it like I do. Have I been reading it, I wonder? Or perhaps it is the incredible access of intellectual power which heroin gives that has improved my memory. Anyhow, the fact is that odd bits of it come swimming into my mind like goldfish darting in and out among streaming seaweed. Oh, yes, my quarrel with Cockie. He said we mustn’t risk being absolutely short of the suit ; and I must go and get a new supply from Mabel before we ran clean out. I can’t help seeing that Cockie is degenerating morally. He ought to be ashamed of himself. He ought to have made proper arrangements for a regular supply instead of relying on me. He lies there all the time perfectly useless. He hasn’t washed or shaved in a month, and he knows perfectly well that I detest dirt and untidiness. One 175