A Forgotten Tomorrow by Teresa Schaeffer

street next to those rich people, but it’s like I can’t control myself anymore. Unless I’m high. That is what I need to do right now, take in a few lines.I need to get out of this rut and I need to stop thinking about Elijah. I can still see his face, his lips motioning silently for help. Dammit.
    I wouldn’t normally pull out a bag and sniff a line or two in plain daylight, especially on this side of town – but I need it. Two or three lines won’t hurt, and I will be on my way. I can’t rest here. I will rest when I get back to my spot by Flannigan’s.
    I sit back for a few moments, waiting for the feeling to hit and rush through my body. I know it’s only temporary, but the blissful numbing sensation is what I need right now – and to get out of this uppity neighborhood, away from the ridiculing eyes.

    A half-hour has passed and I’m still walking – but I’m close to home. I decided to walk behind the buildings, instead of on the sidewalk next to all the morning shoppers. It’s better this way.
    The block I am passing now is still considered to be part of the wealthy area. Even the backs of the boutiques are fancy – the dumpsters are clean, and there isn’t any trash to be seen anywhere. It’s spotless. The workers have sitting areas in the back, with fancy chairs and tables for them to sit at on their lunch breaks.
    The transition between the rich side of town and the poor is quite funny. In front of me, within only a few feet, the change is apparent. Trash is overflowing from the dumpsters and the area is not even slightly clean or spotless. Often enough, teenagers from this area hang out behind the stores at night, drinking and smoking marijuana. From the looks of things I’m guessing that they throw out their empty malt liquor bottles when they are finished – but not in the trash. There is broken glass all over the tarmac.

    It’s odd; my stomach is growling and I know that I’m hungry, but I don’t feel likeeating. I feel sick, and my perspiration is only getting worse now that my buzz has nearly worn off. Inside I am trembling, for whatever reason; I could jump out of my own skin. I need more. I need a few more lines to carry me.
    Benz Street is a few blocks away, so I’m nearly there. I can’t wait until then, though. There is a little park, although it’s normally gang-infested, just another block up. There isn’t any playground equipment or anything, just a few picnic tables. If it’s not occupied by anyone, especially Jon’s boys, I will sit there for a few minutes and get my fix.

    Luckily, the park is abandoned at this hour. Everyone is probably still asleep, hung over from a night of drugging and partying. There is a table underneath a lone tree, which will be the perfect spot for me. It will keep me hidden from anyone who might pass by.
    My bag is nearly empty. I might as well finish it off while I’m here. Maybe my high will last a little longer.
    The wooden table is completely worn out and infested with termites. It doesn’t matter, though. The flat surface will make it easier to take in a few lines.
    I was going to be careful about it, make sure not to drop any of it onto the ground – but screw it. I pour the remaining amount into the palm of my hand, losing only a tiny bit to the mud-covered floor. With my fingers, I strategically separate the powder into six lines. There is more left than I thought. That will surely prolong my high.
    Within thirty seconds I take in all six lines, leaving only a little residue on the table. I cover my face with my trembling hands and rest my elbows on the table, until I feel the drug rushing through my body.
    This time it’s different. Inside I feel more relaxed, but my body is still shaking,trembling. If I don’t lie down on the table for a moment I might fall to the ground. I can’t stand up, and my eyes are twitching uncontrollably.
    I’ve lost all control. I can feel myself lying here, but cannot move.
    I fall deep into a