Saturday, August 08, 2009

Dark Tweeker Rising

The sun just began crawling over the horizon. Off in the mist a dog barked - a car passed. The depression was hitting me with full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.
The apartment - what was left of it - was a filthy, dank den that smelled of aluminum and farts. The mattress was exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to have - all sold for crank - the room was empty with long shadows of a prison.
I lay on my bed with a cigarette in my hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I have nothing. Nothing. My family hates me, I cannot, will not fall in love with anyone. But, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I have attempted since my move to Tijuana has ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my sick mind.
The loneliness howled over me like a cold black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits that I had throughout the night.
What is wrong with me?, I thought.
I began thinking of all the routes in life I could have taken - staying in Los Angeles, keeping a job, becoming a writer, or even making movies. All these crashed into failure. Everything I attempt runs to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into the dope addicts I associate with. All they care for is their drugs and whatever they do got it is never enough - so they will go after yours like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.
I tried to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.
I tried to focus onto the future. One time, long ago, I had great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young guy, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all which faded into mist. I had no future. Over the years I have acquired the mental state of such downward bleakness that when I ever did think of that hopeful future, I was met with a dark cold abyss in my mind’s eye instead.
The depression sunk me lower on these spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there is no point? It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen from these damn naco junkies.
My face wrinkled into worry and saddness. I looked over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.
I picked up a meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Looked at its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. It was this shits fault. All the fault of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattering it against the concrete wall.
I yelped and leapt out of bed to the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! I have to go buy another one from some bitch I can’t stand. I looked at the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a kindred spirit to the little fucker and I just killed it!
Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing. Nothing.
I stood up and went into the kitchen and pulled a small knife out of the drawer. I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would have forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents don’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…
I stood grasping the knife, clutching it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel was cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow. Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck am I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain started to come. I was scared more than anything - scared at the foolish attempt that I had just committed.
I walked into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.
I went to the corner farmacia to buy some bandages. I sat in a nearby park. Kids played, men sold balloons, frozen flavored ice, couple strolled in love. Around me the beat of life. I sat there like a stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression. I held my head, cigarette dangling from my lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life…hell, I even failed at ending it.
Stood up and walked over to Cahuilla Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

2 comments:

DSW said...

"my mind felt like mayonnaise"

Most of the 20th century's best writers would be jealous of you for writing that.

I'm certainly jealous.

judi said...

this is the writing i love best from you--the tragicomedy of drug abuse has always fascinated me.

i'm ordering your book right now.

be well...