Editor's Note: Names have been changed to protect the identities of the sources.
University students pick things up. We pick up textbooks at book stores and groceries from Path Mark. We pick up pens that roll off our desks and iPods that drop from our pockets. These pick-ups go unnoticed - they are merely parts of the standard routine enabling us to lead socially-accepted college lifestyles.
Seeing ourselves as captives to these mundane pick-ups, many students desire to escape from the circle society perfectly molded for us. Some pick up dates at parties, others pick up cigarettes and still more pick up alcohol. They develop a need - an addiction - for a getaway flight.
For other students, these escapes prove unable to supplant entirely their pain with pleasure. These students choose to cross a threshold into the risky world of illegal drugs. Some pick up marijuana, some pick up ecstasy and some pick up cocaine. However, as I would soon discover, one drug outshines the rest for users. This drug provides the only key capable of unshackling their worries. This drug serves the role of a nurse, best friend, lover and enemy.
This drug is heroin.
"Heroin is something relaxing to do after a long day of classes," says John, a 20-year-old university student. "In Delaware, I have the option of using heroin when I want since it's easy to find. In my home town, I can't find it."
Historically, Wilmington has had a massive heroin market in comparison to other areas of the state.
"If you can't get it from someone you know in Newark, you can always get it from someone you don't know in Wilmington," John says. "Sometimes I score a lot in Wilmington and sell it to university students for jacked-up prices. I sold it to at least 10 students last semester.
"After shooting up for the first time, I started doing it two to four times a day for about seven months straight," he says. "Some days, I did it up to 10 times."
When John went home after Fall Semester, he was unable to find any heroin, forcing him to stop the habit and experience withdrawal.
"I usually can control it, but sometimes I just don't want to," John says. "I mean, if it was offered to me right now, I would do it. Talking about it makes me want to do it even more."
A wide grin emerges on his formerly blank face.
"Do you want to come with me to Wilmington while I pick some up tonight?"
His question renders me speechless. Whether the timing was right or not, this student had just handed me an opportunity to witness first-hand the cut and dry truth about the drug trade.
But did I want to get involved in this? Clueless of what to expect in an "open-air drug market," numerous "what if" questions brewed in my mind. What if the police arrest us? What if someone shoots us? What if I get raped?
If met head-on with danger, could I defend myself? I can't even lift 5-pound weights.
"You know, the average university student is never going to see this," John says.
By hook or by crook, I put aside my worries and found myself trekking with him to Wilmington last Tuesday at midnight.
The lyrics of Pink Floyd's song, "Comfortably Numb" vibrated throughout the car: "I hear you're feeling down / Well I can ease your pain / Get you on your feet again." These words describing heroin in an appealing, almost God-like fashion, resulted in an off-the-wall ambiance. My insides began to howl - not for me - but for all who have fallen prey to heroin's trickery.
While emotional mayhem shook my soul, John sparks up a conversation. We sat there talking about movies as if the two of us were old pals. The situation was too surreal for words, but I began feeling connected to this stranger - this "heroin user."
As my imagination continues running wild, reality interrupts. Eighteen minutes after leaving Newark, John parks the car at a dark Wilmington corner.
With a face frozen with indifference he says, "Welcome to the part of Wilmington they don't teach you about in school."
Within 30 seconds, a middle-aged man in dirt-stained clothing approaches John's window. In a state of delirium, he asks what drug John desires.
"Horse," John says.
"The hellfire I got is some of the strongest around. I'll get my girl to fetch it from the room," the man says.
The pedestrians walking down the street, endless cop cars patrolling the area and an open-windowed, fast-food restaurant prompts John to turn off his engine, radio and lights.
Within five minutes, I witness the indescribable: broken-down homes, 12-year-old drug dealers, six cop cars 5 feet from us taking a man into custody, numerous toothless, bad-breathed and muscle-spastic drug dealers approaching cars and a prostitute with bluish-stained lips knocking on John's window.
Noticing the drug deals taking place in front of a dilapidated church, my heart collapses. Unable to further conceal my alarm, I begin trembling from head to toe.
After waiting for more than 20 minutes, John unmasks his irritation. Catching sight of the woman in charge of imparting the "dope," he whistles to gain her attention.
As the woman draws near the car, I notice a massive bruise below her left eye. Her chronic cough, hazy composure, drooping skin and sunken bags mark further signs of a rough life.
The barefoot woman says, "The six cop cars got somebody and left, but there are still more hiding out. I'm waiting for them to leave before I get your stuff. I don't want to get locked up, yaws understand?"
As she stumbles away with a cane, another man surfaces out from the night's dense fog. His red eyeballs protrude beyond his sockets as he flashes some bags within his coat pocket.
John's face lights up realizing he no longer has to wait for the woman.
But, false alarm - the dealer doesn't carry any heroin.
Without warning, two young men hop into John's backseat. They begin engaging in a two-person rap session as if we were invisible. After a few minutes, one of the men offers John $40 worth of "H" for $30.
John's face lights up for a second time.
Driving with the two men, the formerly irritable behavior caused by John's uncontrollable craving gradually dissipates. His syringe would soon contain the liquid he hungered for, his hand would soon push the plunger dispersing the liquid into his veins, his mind would soon soar into a higher realm of existence, his body would soon be "comfortably numb."
Without warning, he exits the car heading toward an ATM. Sitting alone with these two strangers, I realized John's addiction was now putting my life at risk.
Slightly turning my head, I saw them snorting white powder. Their constant sniffling and rapid speech suddenly made sense.
My discomfort worsened as they launched into a harangue of derogatory statements about me.
"Man, this girl would be so easy to fuck," one says.
Feeling justified and strong, the man behind me rests his sweaty hand upon my shoulder promptly moving it toward my breast.
As he softly says, "I can have you now," he wields his immoral standards upon my body and soul.
Nonchalantly he continued dehumanizing me as if I was a mere object living to fulfill his primal mental urges.
Noticing the gun sticking out of the other man's pants, mental and physical paralysis overcomes me.
I prayed for my safety. I prayed for my life.
I prayed for every woman and every man caught up in the drug-dealing industry. I prayed that their bodies would one day belong to them again.
Emotionally detached, I hardly realized John re-entered the car. Heading back to the corner, he surrenders his $30, asking to see the bags. The two men explain the drug resides within their home. They direct John to drop them off at the corner, drive around the block and meet them in the same place.
He follows their instructions - their deceit.
They stole my dignity, my trust in humanity and my sympathy for their plight. They stole John's money.
While hoping John would turn the car around, another random man seats himself in the car.
"Don't give nobody yaws money before you get the dope," the stranger says. "I got some H on me now if you want, but drive. This looks too obvious."
Yelling at John for ignoring traffic laws the dealer exposes his frustration, but at this point, I was too comatose to care.
Although the man was selling bags for $10 each, John was charged an extra dollar for what the seller termed an "inconvenience."
John finally obtained the bag and would go home to shoot up. I finally obtained the truth and would go home to throw up.
See next week's issue for a look at heroin use on campus.
Follow us on Twitter
Subscribe to our feed
Contact us through email
