Life on the out: wasted

imgresI push, scrape and pile the white powder into a line. I smooth out the crumpled £20 note in my wallet and make an impromptu tube.


As I lower my nostril to the mound of powder, negative thoughts ricochet in my mind like a stray bullet, fuck life! fuck everything! no one cares! I don’t care! who gives a shit? I snort the line up my nostril before I could finish the destructive mantra. The bullet finds its destination: temporary oblivion. Nothing matters except the nothingness that I sought and found.


I close my eyes to my dingy surroundings. I am in a flat with sycophants who blow smoke up my proverbial because they know my need to please is easily exploited. Most drug users are selfish but I have a tendency to dish out my stash with the efficiency of a croupier at a high-class casino. My arse drowns in the worse for wear sofa, I try to avoid making eye contact with the pleading eyes. I have the attention of everyone in the room in a lockjaw grip. Their gaze burns a hole in the pocket where the few remaining grams of coke are securely wrapped, away from the craving hoard that hopes I will bless them a meagre crumb of comfort.


The hit subsides. I see faces in high definition: gaunt, drawn, emaciated; nourishment of the next high is prioritised over the need for food. Each person is transfixed by the escape that can be found in my jeans pocket. Unlike Rhianna, I find no love in a hopeless place, only the fleeting regard that lasts as long as I can keep the drugs flowing.


One comment

  1. Chilling. A far cry from a rock & roll lifestyle. Excellent writing, thank you for the insight.

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