With a razor sharp howl George vehemently denied having a heroin addiction.  But his friends knew better.  He knew better.  The track marks on his arms, constellations from a magical galaxy.  The cold sweats, a misty morning dew.  The withdrawals, a gangbang in hell, burning his soul.

The intervention didn’t go as planned.  Wasted words repelled by his ironclad urge to self-destruct.  His friends babbled for over an hour on deaf ears.  When they’d finished George stood up listlessly and excused himself.

On the street he scuffed his shin’s against a snowbank while barking under his breath.  Surrounded by Christmas lights, reindeer and jolly Santa figurines he searched for a secluded area.  His safe-haven a park offset from the road.  Plopping his ass on the snow he reached into his pocket pulling out his date for the night.  Breathtaking, a syringe glimmering in the reflection of the moonlit snow.  George slid off his coat and found an unused spot on his arm.  The kick was almost immediate as his finger made love to the plunger.  Exhausting his resources he melted into the snow and let his mind get lost.

When the heroin took hold George’s body was swallowed by his surroundings.  The wind was softer, the lights brighter and the cold, mystifying.  Thinking about the intervention he mumbled with bitter sentiment.

“Waste of time.  I’m not addicted to this shit!  Who the fuck ruins someone’s Christmas?  They could’ve waited for tomorrow.  Well, I’m going to make this a Christmas to remember.”

As George’s eyes rolled back into his head he did just that, made it a Christmas to remember.  And it’s a good thing he did, because it was his last.