3: Umm, It's not what it looks like?

The first few days went by nicely.

I fastened a thick comforter from the abandoned closet to the single window looking out of my apartment; nailing through the cheap.. what was it, plastic? wood? of the wall on either side of the dirty slab of glass. I spent a few days, three maybe, locked inside. Smoking what little i had left; half a pack of cigarettes and some weed-crumbs. It'd be an insult to call them more than that. I lost track of the sun and slept when i was tired. Ate the canned vegetables from the kitchen. It's been nearly a week since I scored any coke. I should pay a visit to my dear friend the pharmacist, but frankly money needs to be thought about. I counted it. Again. $100.00. How far could I really make it?

I lean back on the couch and put the cigarette out; pressing the short ember into the arm of the dirty couch; with plenty of holes so that another wouldn't much matter.

When I decide to venture into public, I list my priorities loosely in my mind. I try to. My thought process is slightly inhibited; intermittently between the ramblings of an unsober mind I think "coke... pharmacy; 2 blocks down the road." Not much help as far as prioritizing goes. Probably should follow it. I walk with what I hope is assurance, but realize is probably more of a stumble and a swaying.

Getting down to the ground level, I notice something strange. A policemen. I'd always thought police didn't care enough to come down this way. I try to sober up; not look suspicious, but realize that the rather large man [i assume] in blue is bent over a severed head that seemed to have come up out of the sewer drain! What! I leave for 2, 3 days, and what the hell happens? the streets are lined with stagnant puddles of rainwater; [it rained???] I keep walking, the rambling in my mind shifting from incoherence to "what the hell is a severed head doing in the street."

Assuming he deserved it [who cares if he did] I walk to the pharmacy. The streets are quiet; autumn has set in. The chill isn't quite noticeable yet. The air smells of ozone; more rain coming. A man from the building; Dimitri i believe, is walking from the direction of Mr. Foo's place. Where are his pants? Its a damned neighborhoo--- eh, whatever...

When I get to the shabby, patchwork little pharmacy, I see the window is busted in. Shattered glass littering the area; and noone is to be seen. I walk closer to investigate, walking over the broken glass to peer inside the dark, once fluorescent-lit, shop.

I hear a sharp, brief "WHEER" behind me, along with braking tires; the crunch of gravel. Quickly strobing blue and white LED flashes wash over the surrounding wreck of a building, and I turn to face a Cop, one foot out of his cruiser, coming to talk to me as I stand on broken glass of a store with no other being around save for the flocks of pigeons that had descended in my indoor retreat [and I don't believe they're much good for testifying.] My heart accelerates, as I check the pockets of my jeans, running my fingers over the outside; identifying each object. hundred dollars in cash; lighter; pipe; small zipped bag. I take a deep breath and a step towards the officer.

My inner monologue?

"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck."

2: Eh, Screw It

I sleep deeply.

Well, I assume I slept deeply. The late morning sun shines brightly through the window. I slowly glance at the clock, already knowing it was far past my time to catch the train to work, and not even attempting to hurry. 10:30 AM.

Work starts at 8. The train takes about an hour, on a good day, and getting ready takes just a few minutes. Usually, I have to be awake by 7:45. It's not all that early, but I've never been a morning person... Not to mention I lost track of the night around 4 AM. In the distance, i hear a deep, brassy sound from out of my window. Ms. Pigg. She is so desperate for attention, searching for people to listen to her play her "Sousaphone." At least she cares about something... My head is still swirling from the night before, and the slightly out-of-tune attempts at music aren't helping me straighten myself up.

I walk out of the room, locking the door behind me, (ha! as if there's anything worth stealing) and head down to the train station. I don't even know why I'm bothering. I'm too late for it to matter.The sun stings my eyes; not ready to accept the daytime. The air is nice, having cooled off since the terrible summer heat. I wait for the red line to pull in to the station. A quarter hour passes, not long for around here, and I board the train.

The oh-so familiar dull graffiti'ed walls of the buildings around Joe's Diner tower over me. I open the door to a familiar "Cling" of the small bell over my head. My boss, Joe Goldstein, "The" Joe, is an unpredictable man, the only thing not overly familiar about this job, but not in a good way. He is enraged, face reddening. He wants to know why I've been late a few days.

"The train is so unreliable." I try meekly, with a shrug, "I'll try harder sir."

"Fuck the train!" He'd started off pretty straightforward..."Get the hell out of here, I can't be surrounded by unreliable swine."

The insult went into one ear, and sort of fell out of the other. I let out a sigh, and stared at him coldly, not one to lose my temper (or to care enough to have one) "Whatever."

I had been planning on some attempt to maintain my paycheck and coerce him into not being upset, but the same ugly walls in this same little place. My same head, with the same exhaustion, and this same boss, unpredictable, but never kind...

I turned on my heels, and pushed the glass door open a bit more forcefully than was probably necessary. As I walk back to the dirty downtown train station, I think to myself...

I've got a hundred dollars in my wallet; the rent just got paid, and I really could use a vacation. Even if it's in the same old place. Who cares about a job.

Might as well go back to sleep. I meander my way back to the apartment...

1: Pain and Pleasure

I don’t appreciate the term “Drug Addict.” I prefer “Connoisseur.”

Thats Me, little miss Alice Taylor... The drug connoisseur, nuisance, whatever.

I had tried to stop, be "good," but it just didn't work... I couldn't give something so great up.

My parents kicked me out of their house last year, shortly after my 18th birthday. I had dropped out of school a few years before that, and having a coke stash in my room must have just been the last straw.

I don’t mind… More freedom, I guess.

The first step was figuring out my money situation. I found a part-time job at the downtown Diner, Joe’s, and found a cheap little apartment in this old run down spot called “Watershed Heights” a few miles out of town. Work is easy enough, although I could use a few days off... As far as Watershed Heights, well, I don't go out much anyway, and the cheaper the rent, the more product I can afford. It's harder when the parents aren't footing the bill anymore...

There’s not much to do around this town. Chill with the locals, some, but normally I just numb the boredom away; usually on the roof of the apartments… It's one of the more private spots in town... As far as product, Pot’s the easiest to get a hold of, and luckily the owner of the drug store down the street has no problem selling prescription stuff over the counter; As well as my coke.

Everyone's nice enough to me. Well, they're not mean...

Most just pass me off as another user. Either that, or they are, too. the guys around seem to think I’m cute, though... They’ll be disappointed when they find out I’m after their girlfriend.

I live alone on the 4th Floor of Watershed Heights… The numbers fell off my door long before I moved in, but it’s the first door off the stairwell. The old tenants left a lot of stuff; either ran off or got killed. Lucky for me, seeing as I don’t have anything…

The woman’s clothes fit decently, and the couch isn’t bad either.

Now?

I sit here, staring out of a dirty window down on a dirty fountain, in a dirty little town. I can't help but remind myself why I ended up here. The drugs... It hurts to think about... But not as bad as giving it up does.

I fill my lungs with smoke, again, from the thin joint between my fingers... My pain and my pleasure... I hold it in, with my wishes that it would make everything better. I close my eyes, and press the lit end of the joint to the window sill, I leave it there... I'll pick it up some other time.

...Work in the morning... I walk to the couch, wobbling, and collapse on it, drifting off to the blackness of my dreams.