Budget cuts mean it is time to trim the fat out of the system, and that means no more morphine for you. As an added bonus, you are going to be released well ahead of schedule. You must be cured!
You are suffering a terrible withdrawal the day they bundle you up with a patchy brown-and-grey winter coat, some dumpster smelling clothes, and a pair of shoes two-sizes too big. At least you got some extra socks to help fill in the space.
Sickness. You can barely make it to your apartment building. It never occurred to you how close you lived to the city asylum until now. Might be time to move.
Fumbling with the keys, it takes you too long to realise that they took away your apartment while you were locked up. You wonder if thinking about moving caused this to happen, like reality is warping to match your dark thoughts. Better check into a hotel, sort this out. Hopefully you've got the funds.
Across the street, at the local bar's little white ATM box, you discover that someone emptied your bank account. Bill collectors. Some junky friend. Impossible to say for sure. Feels like you have enemies everywhere, but you don't know who they are.
Outside, sitting next to a dumpster. Reflect on your situation. At least it isn't raining.
Sickness. Worse this time. You throw up on yourself. Cold up your spine. Brings no relief.
It starts to rain.