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She lay on the dank dirty old mattress next to him and watched as his eyes rolled back in his head, he sighed heavily through the grogginess of his mindï'½s haze, his scarred tortured body finally receiving its medication and succumbing to the wave of pleasure that currently rode through his thin frame, evading his mind and producing a lazy grin on his emaciated face before sending him off into a deep trouble free sleep. It wouldnï'½t last but for now he was inï'½

Heaven.

Thatï'½s what he would call it. Right now, this instance, he was in heaven, flying with the angels. She was no where; she wasnï'½t in his dreams, not with the angels filling them so completely. His dreams were too crowded, images of her drowned out in the sea of lies and greed, despair and desperation. Her voice but a faint whisper against the roar of angels wings.

He promised, promised her this time it was his last, never again.

He would sort himself out, cure himself of this disease that was currently taking over every aspect of his once promising life. He said he was broken, that he could fix himself despite the fact it would most certainly beï'½

Hell.

Cold turkey, thatï'½s what he said, he would go cold turkey and everything would be fine. Itï'½d all be fine. The dreaded cold turkey equals hell to someone like him, she knew, knew him all too well, he would never be-able to resist the angels and their sweet lies. No way would it be fine.

Not with the sweating and sickness, the aches and groans. It wouldnï'½t be fine. It wouldnï'½t be fine when he was trying to scratch out that eternal itch, pulling his hair and holding onto her arm tight, begging and begging for it, begging for release while he kicked and screamed like a rabid beast, begging for the angels to hold him, to caress him and welcome him back into their waiting arms.

Oh yes they were waiting, they would always wait to hold him close to their chests and whisper their words of sin.

She touched his face gently as a tear rolled down her face. She loved him, loved him with all her heart but he wasnï'½t her love, not now, not anymore. She didnï'½t know what he was.

She kissed his forehead and smiled a sad smile before picking up the small baggie that lay on the bedside table next to his bed. The baggie was filled with a brown grainy powder.

Heroin, smack, skag, dope, junk. It had many names, they all made her sick.

She stared at it for a few seconds, anger boiling up inside her as she squeezed it tightly in her hand, splitting it open, letting its rank smell escape and enter her nostrils.

She threw it down hard on the floor and wiped her face, the tears falling freely now. She knew what she had to do.

Heroin had stolen her love, stolen him away and given him to the angels.

Let them have him, let them deal with it because she couldnï'½t, not anymore.

She walked, walked away, out the door, down the street, away.

He wasnï'½t her love anymore. He was quite happy with the angels.