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Cambodian Junkie 2

Written on: Tuesday February 6th, 2007

A journal entry from: Cambodian Junkie 1

...we were in possession of.
the 5 small pieces of white were hard like asperin and had no discernable odor. i told him i thought the stuff in north america was brown and asked him how pure this stuff was. he told me that the stuff was brown, same as in england, because of the shit they cut it with. the stuff before us was freshly processed, 99% pure china white.
"and you shoot it?" i asked, horrified. i knew that the shit that sometimes makes it into vancouver's east side and kills off the junkies in pidgeon park was nowhere near that pure.
"i usually do more than twice what we ave ere" he said, "but i can only get a little bit on credit now cuz i owe so much to this guy."
"how much?"
"around $1300 USD."
my despair for this poor soul went up a few notches and i knew then, for sure, that he would never get out of P2 alive. i was sitting, talking with a dead man and watching him kill himself.
he casually told me about having seen friends die in front of him and of having saved some friends when their hearts had stopped beating after shooting too much. during the telling of these sullen tales, neither his voice nor his expression ever ever betrayed a trace of emotion. he merely accepted these things as a fact of life.
i began to wonder how i was going to tell him that i would not be shooting up with him this evening without losing face. not that i was ever planning on doing it anyway, but he did not know that yet. it did not even matter, really, if i were to lose face with a dead man, i guess. but still, if i did not have to, then i wouldn't. i told him i'd had too much to drink earlier on and was feeling like i'd get sick if i shot up pure shit. maybe he should just go ahead, i suggested, and i'd wait til tomorrow. he thought that was a smart move and thanked me for not making myself puke, pass out and/or die in his room. again, not a trace of emotion.