Diary of a Drug Fiend

204 The Diary of a Drug Fiend saw that he had taken a little pocket-knife and cut the string of the bottle. He had levered out the cork, and dipped the knife into the powder. He measured out a dose with a queer cunning questioning smile in his eyes. , My breath was coming quickly and shallowly. I gave a hurried little nod. I seemed to hear myself saying, “A little bit more.” At least, he added to the heap. “A little mild stimulant is indicated,” he said, with an imitation of his bedside manner. He was kneeling in front of my chair, and held up his hand like a priest making an offering to his goddess. The next thing I remember is that I was walking feverishly, almost running, up Sloane Street. I hada feeling of being pursued. Was it true, that old Greek fable of the Furies? What had I done? What had I done? , My fingers worked spasmodically on the little amber- tinted bottle of poison. I wanted to get away from every one and everything. I didn’t know where I was going. I hated Peter from the depths of my soul. I would have given anything in the world—except the heroin—to be able never to see him again. But he had the money, why shouldn’t we enjoy our abject ruin as we had enjoyed our romance? Why not wallow in the moist, warm mire?