Heroin overdose described by a heroin addict
Describing a planned heroin overdose
He is separated from his wife and kids, his father died two years earlier, and Richie Farrell finds himself in an abandoned mill in Lowell, Massachusetts. And planning his own death. This short excerpt below is taken from Richie’s amazing memoir of heroin addiction and describes exactly how he planned his own overdose with heroin…
Heroin needle + rainbow bag = heroin overdose
I have two choices—run or die.
Like a doctor performing microscopic surgery, I pour the contents of the rainbow bags into my cooker. With my good hand, I reach for the bottle of water, insert the syringe, and draw up about 20 units. I squirt the water into the cooker, watch it slowly move across the white powder and turn to liquid smoke. I reach for Nicky’s lighter, flick it on, and move it evenly back and forth under the cooker until the heroin begins to bubble. The smell is sweet and it makes my stomach turn. I steal one of Joey’s cigarettes, bite off a small piece of the filter, and spit it into the middle of the burning liquid. It’s time. I can’t believe this is the way Richie Farrell is going to die.
Nicky or Joey haven’t moved for a good five minutes. At best, they’re brain dead. I hold the cooker up close to my mouth with my bad hand, put the plunger end of the syringe between my teeth, aim the tip of the needle into the center of the cigarette filter, and pull the plunger back with my teeth until the filter goes dry. I have 10 units. My filter grabs everything that isn’t pure heroin. My heart races and I get a hard on. But this is better than foreplay. I’m finally in control. I throw away the cooker, shake the syringe up and down, and tap the top.
“What the fuck do I care about air bubbles killing me,” I say quietly.
I alternate arms daily. If not the veins will collapse from overuse. Or worse, you’ll get an infection under your skin. And if it manages to creep into your blood supply, you’re cooked. Junkies die. Shit goes right to your heart. Shuts you down, usually it’s a fatal case of cotton shot fever. Yesterday was right; today I’ll fire into my left right below the bicep. Both arms look like dartboards. But, out of nowhere, a huge, unfucked-with vein pops out in the middle of my forearm. It’ll be a clean hit. One, two, three, and everything will go silent.
“Cheer, cheer, for old Notre Dame. Wake up the echo cheering her name.”
I insert the needle, there’s a little sting, pull back on the plunger, and a dash of red-blue blood snakes up the middle of the clear liquid. A direct hit. Nothing left to do.
“Shake down the thunder from the sky…”
“…and although the odds be great or small, old Notre Dame will win over all.”
Everything goes warm. I sit down. The room begins to spin. I remember my father dying. I see Joey and Nicky asleep. What would I say to my father? Joey looks so much like LeBeau, the little French guy on Hogan’s Heroes. Brightness and brightness. I feel safe. I remember, Dad never let me watch Hogan’s Heroes, said it was Jewish propaganda. I see Dad lying on the kitchen floor, begging for his pills. But he’s laughing.
“Dad, the Jews didn’t kill Jesus,” I call out, “He killed Himself. Hogan’s Heroes was just a kids’ show, Dad.”