And he lived day to day, trying to figure out what he could do next in order to get his next fix. Food, family, friends, they all fell to the side while he tried to find the money for another rock. His family could only coddle him so much before he found himself on the street.
He had his first heart attack at age 29 after robbing a house. He scored enough crack to keep him busy for a week, and smoked it all in a day. His chest burned and he couldn't breathe. Some passerby saw him gasping for breath and called the ambulance.
Since then, he'd tried to get his life together. He had a job again, shelving at a supermarket, but it was work nonetheless. He kept clean from crack, as much as he could. But he couldn't help himself at times. He'd do fine for a year, then find himself lying in his apartment, barely functional. Still, he'd try to pick up the pieces and start over.
He found himself in the hospital frequently for chest pain after too much crack, and by the end of his stay he'd leave with a handful of Vicodin. And soon it was more than a handful. And soon, it was percocet, then oxycontin. And he kept away from the crack, but he'd traded one demon for another. And he took more, just to try to forget his life. And he'd find anyone who'd write him a script for something. And he'd pay good money for just a piece of paper with some scribbling on it.
And one day he ran out of Vicodin, and the pharmacists all knew him well, and he hadn't had anything for days. Everything hurt. Everything was pain. And he just wanted something to take it all away. And there was the crack. And Karl was back on the pipe, trying to smoke away his life.
And at the age of 47, Karl had his second heart attack.
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