To understand my situation, you must first understand the world that I live in.

My name is Brad and I am 37 years old. I work as an accountant in New York, I have a lovely wife and two lovely kids. But things weren't always this way.

Before I met Sally, my expectations for life were rather grim. I drank, smoked and basically ingested every mind-altering substance I could get my hands on in excessive amounts. So when I met Sally at the age of 28, the living ink buried deep in the skin of my right forearm had deteriorated into nothing more than six years. If it hadn't been for her, and the world that opened up for me with her arrival in my life, I would have been dead three years ago.

Even though as I have steadily climbed the mountain of sobriety, the numbers on my arm has climbed as well, I am forever anxious about my time left, despite the fact that it has been steadily lodged in the fifties for the last two years.

But that all changed today.

I entered the Starbucks on the corner on my way to work as I do every day. Coffee is the only stimulant that I still allow myself, so I enjoy every second of the tingling sensation of the caffeine spreading in my body.

As I put down the cup however, I see the numbers and letters of my tattoo melt together to a single large drop of ink, and then spread out again, revealing the new countdown - 39 days.

In a fit of sheer panic, I throw my cup straight through the room, startling every other coffee addict in the room who hasn't yet been completely awakened by their cup of coffee. A lady yells at me - the remaining coffee from my cup seems to have formed several large stains on her dress, but I am too scared to mind her right now.

I stumble out of the café and out onto the street mumbling excuses left and right to the people I bump into. Zombie-like I wander through the masses of men and women, who ironically might just have been zombies as well, noticing nothing but the straight line to work and thinking of nothing else but when they get to go home again.

My mind is a mess. 39 days! I think about my wife and the kids, and all the things I still want to experience with them. But another thought comes sneaking, whispering in the back of my head. Slowly but steadily the whisper turns into a roar, eclipsing all other thoughts. It's like an ancient tribal chant has started echoing in my head.

"Drugs. Drugs. Drugs", it goes.

I feel like a mask has been ripped off me and revealed the face of an addict that has always been hidden underneath. What is the point of sobriety when I am doomed?

My phone feels incredibly heavy in my hand as I dial the old familiar number. Sally had me delete them all, but one remembers things like that.

"Hey, it's me. I know it's been a long time Joe, but there's no time for reminiscing. I need the strongest shit you got, right now".

After informing Joe of my whereabouts, only 10 minutes pass by before I am holding a small bag labeled "Rx", containing 3 orange pills.

I swallow the last of my conscience and then one of the pills. It's supposed to be some new shit, something even Joe didn't know what was, and he's even more strung out than I ever was.

Another 20 minutes go by with nothing happening, and then a freight train packed with hallucinations unloads in my brain. Purple, green, yellow and red lights swirl from the corners of my eyes and obstruct my entire vision.

Then I pass out.

I wake up in the gutter feeling worse than ever, but still hellbent on going out this way. No "39 days" for me, I want to decide myself, and I decide to go out with the things I used to love the most - drugs.

Down goes the second pill.

Even though the drug seems to have some mind-numbing effects, nothing can hold back the wave of terror that washes over me, as I see the numbers on my arm swirling back and forth just before the effects of the second pill sets in.

First it jumps straight to 128 years, then back to only 7 months. Then it jumps even higher, ending at 229 years. Then colors fill my head and I lose my consciousness once again.

Waking up, I think to myself that the numbers changing must have been another hallucination, but the number stays. I have 229 years left to live.

My motions still affected by the drug, I make my way out into the people on the street and ask them to confirm that the number right there on my arm indicates that I do in fact have more than two centuries left to live. Despite my horrible smell from lying in the gutter for what seems like half of the day, most people are polite enough to answer my question before covering their nose and pacing away from me.

I can't believe it. What started as a nightmare ended up as a dream come true! The adrenaline spreading in my body feels better than any high I have ever experienced.

But even in this moment of seemingly total happiness and relief, the lingering thought at the back of my head remains.

I still have one pill left. What if - what if it could be even better?

My inner dialogue debates this in what seems to be an eternity. I can almost feel the angel and the devil physically manifest on my shoulders, screaming to me what I should and shouldn't do.

But "once an addict, always an addict" seems to hold true whether you're chasing the perfect high or eternal life, so I slip the third pill on my tongue and swallow it.

This time it's different. No colors come floating in, and I am as conscious as ever. Instead, darkness fills my vision until everything is black, and I collapse on the street once again, though still aware of every sound and every thought in my head.

Hours go by, and when darkness finally lets go of my eyes, it seems to have spread to my surroundings in the form of dusk.

A man comes walking towards me. He wants to help me up. I thank him and reach out for his stretched out hand, but as I raise my right arm, the light of a streetlamp illuminates my tattoo, showcasing letters that this time are not black, but red, as it is custom for people close to death.

8 hours they read. I fall to my knees in deep agony and scream at the top of my lungs. The helpful man seems to take that as his cue to leave, and I don't mind that he does.

I try calling Joe, but he doesn't answer. Maybe he tried taking some of these pills too so maybe he's dead already, honestly I couldn't care less. My addictive personality has caught up with me, this time once and for all.

My last 39 days which could have been spent in the loving embrace of my ever-supportive wife and my loving kids, have been replaced by 8 hours that I spend frantically rocking back and forth on a street corner, repeating again and again:

"One too many. Always one too many".