Chapter 1

I stood against the window, watching the raindrops trace myriad patterns on the glass. Ominous darkness pervaded outside. A bolt of lightning seared through the skyline, followed by a roaring thunder, sending shudders down my spine.

I turned around instinctively to look at the inert body that rested on the bed. A zillion tubes ran all over the body, connected to machines of varying size and queerness. A cardiac monitor kept beeping at a corner, telling me that all was not lost. That maybe everything can be alright again. I looked at his face, and even though the respirator covered most of it, I knew I could catch the tiniest smile that he could muster. But there was nothing. No flicker of emotion. I sat down on a chair beside him and touched his hand. I felt a sense of déjà-vu…

“C’mon, Christine. Come inside. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

The little girl kept her eyes fixed on her shoes, holding her teddy tightly against her chest. She didn’t like hospitals. And she didn’t like the people who worked in hospitals. Injections, blood, huge machines, they all scared her.

Her father knelt down and held up her chin. “It’ll be alright, honey. We’ll all be there. Don’t you want to talk with mom?”

Christine gave a tiny nod. Her father smiled and stood up. He extended his hand at her. “Let’s do this together.”

“Christine?”

My trance broke, and I looked up. It was Jonathan Harris, our family doctor. He stood at the door, his brows knitted with concern.

“Are you alright, Christine?”

I quickly wiped my cheek to remove any traces of tears and stood up.

“Yea, I was just.. lost in some era,” I said, giving a weak smile. Dr Harris nodded at me and approached the bed to check the vitals. He was wearing a formal shirt and trousers with a white coat on. He was in his sixties, though he certainly looked younger. He was bald, and had been that way since I could remember. I even recalled my father once telling me he had been bald since he was a small boy. I made a mental note to ask him about it someday.

Dr Harris put on his half-moon glasses, and scanned through the screens for anything abnormal, or anything positive, for that matter. Then he examined the breathing with the help of stethoscope. It was pretty routine. After that he would check for pupil response and motor response. The results were the same every day.

“He’s pretty much the same,” he said, removing his glasses.

I nodded and gazed at my feet.

“Christine, how do you feel?” Dr Harris asked, after moments of silence.

I blinked up at him, lost in my thoughts. “About what?”

“Your injuries, honey. “

“Oh, yes, I feel fine.”

“Okay, but let's get you checked up. Sit on that chair for me, please”

I did as he asked me to. He took out a tiny torch out of the pocket of his doctor's coat. “Look at me”, I heard him say, blinded by the light being shone into my eyes. I blinked hard and it took me a few seconds to regain my sight after he had checked me.

“Yes, you look fine,” he said. “Any migraines or headaches that you have been experiencing lately?”

“No, doctor. Just the scar of my surgery is still a little tender.”

“Oh, don't worry about that, it's completely normal,” he said. “Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, with a warm smile forming on his mouth, “I declare you fit and fine. You can start going to classes.”

I returned the smile. “I intend to.”

“Alright. I better go and check on the other patients. Meet me in my office when you leave. We’ll talk about your dad,” he said, hanging the stetho on his neck.

I looked at the figure on the bed. “Sure,” I whispered.

After Dr Harris was gone, I sat down on the chair again and took his hand in mine. His wrinkled hand. He seemed so much older. As if years had passed away for him in a month. His breaths were long and silent. I knew he was there inside. But maybe he wasn’t fighting. Maybe he was just tired.

How could I even think like that?

I squeezed his hand and kissed it.

“C’mon, Dad,” I whispered, “Do this for me. Fight for me. You are not alone. Let’s do it together. Just show me something. Anything. Give me a sign.”

I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Happy Birthday, Dad.” And then I left, big, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

***

“He has a pretty good chance, you know.”

Dr Harris was sitting on a huge chair - one of those revolving ones. His skin was alabaster white, which made the dark circles under his eyes more distinct. He leaned back on the chair, a smile plastered on his face.

I shrugged, smoothing my black pencil skirt. I was tired of all the reassurances everybody kept heaping over me.

“Look, Christine,” he said leaning forward, hands on the table, “I have known your family for a decade now and you are no kid anymore. So I’ll be honest with you.”

“Okay.”

“I spoke with Dr Spellman – he’s the one who operated you and your dad – and he thinks the chances are 50-50 right now,” he said, as a matter-of-factly.

“That sounds bleak,” I blurted.

Dr Harris looked at me, his eyes wide, as if I had just confessed that I was in love with him. “Absolutely not! A 50-50 chance in case of a coma patient is very promising. You can’t lose hope like this.”

“I am sorry, doctor. I hope you’re right,” I said, nodding slowly.

“Well,” Dr Harris said, standing up, “Is Jenna coming to pick you up?”

“Yea, she asked me to call her when I was ready,” I said, searching for my cell phone in my bag, “I will just call – “

“No need, I can take you home,” he said.

 

Moments later, when we were speeding down the road, I looked at him and asked:

“Do you think he will return?”

He gave me a curt glance and kept driving. For a moment I could swear it was sadness in those eyes.

***

Jenna was the best. The absolute best. If I had a role-model, it was her. I loved her. And she doted on me. She was technically my aunt, but she was 26-years old only. So I just called her Jenna. My mother used to say that when I was born it was Jenna who held me first. She took me in her arms, pinched my nose and exclaimed: “Aww, I love her!” And sometimes I felt as if I still have that memory deep inside me.

I unlocked the door with my key and went inside. Home, sweet home. The flames crackled at the fireplace. I let out an inaudible yawn. The last month had been quite tiresome, for me and people around me. The surgery, the healing, it had taken a physical as well as emotional toll on me.

“Is that you, Chris?” came a voice from the kitchen.

I groaned. “Yes, Jenna. And please don't call me that, you know I hate it,” I said as I made my way to the kitchen.

She laughed. “I know, and that's what makes it more fun.”

I rolled my eyes at her. She was preparing dinner and looked frazzled, her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a pink t-shirt with a dirty apron tied around her waist. And yet she looked beautiful. She was a brunette, like me. And she was tall, svelte and two dimples popped out on her cheeks whenever she smiled. There was this aura around her that made people cheery. Sometimes, she reminded me of my mother.

“What are you trying to make?” I asked jokingly. Jenna was, well, not that good at cooking. She was a journalist, and most of her life consisted of take-out dinners and skipped meals.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Lamb chops.”

“Yum,” I said and hopped off the kitchen counter and helped her plate up.

Suddenly, her face turned serious.

“How's Martin?” she asked, her lips pressed together.

I sat on the counter and shrugged.

“Dad's still the same. Dr Harris said that there's a good chance he will make it.”

She nodded.

“It's his birthday today,” I mumbled.

In a second she was by my side. She gave me a tight hug and whispered soothingly in my ear, “It's all going to be fine, your dad will be fine.”

I wish I could believe that. I badly needed to believe that everything is going to be alright. That everything is going to be back to normal soon.

 

 

Chapter 2

I was running. Past dark corridors. I looked around tentatively, still running. Doors with number plates swished past me. I passed by a glass door with the words ‘ICU’ painted in red. I was in the hospital. And I was running. I didn’t know why. But an unknown fear clutched my chest. I just knew I had to run. As if I was chased by a ferocious animal who gained on me with every passing second. As if there was no escape.

“Daddy,” I called out, but my voice made no sound. I couldn’t even hear myself running. And then I heard footsteps coming from behind me; long, distant strides. I turned back, but there was nobody. Suddenly, the strides turned shorter but louder and faster, as if the stalker had started running. My heart started thumping hard against I chest, and I started running faster. Tears streamed down my cheeks, making my vision blurry. “Daddy, where are you?” I screamed. Still muted. A familiar wave of panic washed through me.

Then I saw it. The wall. It came out of nowhere. I stopped right before I slammed into it. I turned around and saw the dark, silent corridor behind me. No one was in sight. My legs could no longer hold me up. I slid down, breathing hard. But instead of cold, hard floor, my knees met nothing. I was falling. Screaming and crying, I was trying to hold onto anything I could. But there was nothing around. The walls had disappeared, just darkness, enveloping me. And then, I wasn't falling anymore. I felt a pair of strong, firm arms, holding me. Strangely, I felt safe in those arms. “Dad?” I asked. I couldn't see the face. The darkness started to lift slowly and found myself in the arms of a stranger. A boy, with dark hair, brown eyes. I blinked hard. Those eyes seemed familiar; I felt as I could trust him. “Who are you?” I whispered, my words registering a sound for the first time. He opened his mouth and I heard him speak in a weird, distorted female voice, “Honey, Chris, wake up!” 

I woke up, startled. Aunt Jenna was in front of me, looking worried. As the realization that it was a dream dawned on me, I felt my damp cheeks with my hand. I wiped off the tears. 

“Bad dream?” Jenna asked.

“Yea. But not that bad.”

“Seemed pretty bad. You were literally thrashing your arms on the bed. Reminded me of The Exorcist,” Jenna joked.

I groaned and covered my face with the sheets. 

“You're going to be late for school. Come on, get up,” Jenna said.

I yawned and got off the bed. That boy's face was hazy in my memory, but I would never forget those eyes. That was the thing about dreams. They slipped out of your head pretty fast.

School, I remembered. I was going to the school for the first time after the accident. I had decided that no one needs to know about my memory loss. It wouldn't be too hard to keep it from everybody else. I got ready for school in a hurry. It took me time to decide my outfit, but I settled with a red sequined top with black jeans and my wedges. I brushed my hair and tied them up with a rubber band. One last glance in the mirror and I was ready to go. I made my way to the kitchen and Aunt Jenna was sitting on the counter, wearing a pair of gray trousers and a black button-down shirt and her high-heeled black peep-toes. She was staring at her laptop screen, typing furiously. She glanced up from her laptop to see me. “Give me a minute, please, C. And the breakfast is on the table.” She said.

I had breakfast in silence, still thinking about the dream I had last night. I didn't know why but it felt like I had seen that face somewhere before. Shaking the thought off my mind, I concentrated on the day ahead. I knew the day was going to be filled with drama, it’s not every day that an accident victim returns to her classes from a hiatus.

“Are you done with the work, Jenna?” I asked.

“Almost,” she replied.

“You don't have to drop me to school, really, I can go on my own.” I said

“No, Chris. Just a few more minutes.”

“Alright” I replied.

I went to my room to pick up my bag. By the time I was back, she was wearing her blazer and was ready to go. She looked at her watch. “Crap, we're both gonna be late,” she said. She worked as a freelancer, having published some of her articles in the local newspapers. The big scoop was yet to be scooped.

“It’s okay, don't worry. We have time.” I told her.

“Come on, hurry up. Get in the car,” she said, impatiently.

We made our way to the car outside our house. It took us 10 minutes to get to school. Jenna kissed my cheek and said “Have a great day, Chris. Bye.” I narrowed my eyes at her and replied “You too.”

 

***

 

I hopped out of the car and made my way to the school. I stood outside for a minute and stared at the huge white building and the green fields around it. Nothing I didn't remember had changed. The day is going to be great, I said to myself. I saw some students staring at me, and when I looked at them, they looked away and began to whisper in their groups. I guess I would have to get used to this now. The accident made me popular. It was on every news channel, in every newspaper for days. No one could forget about the accident that easily, especially when one of the person involved in the accident studied in their school. I hurried into the school, my cheeks burning. I had to go to the principal's office the first thing in the morning. I was sure I remembered where that was. It was on the ground floor, just opposite the east-side courtyard. As I walked down the corridors of the school making my way to the principal's office, the stares and the whispering continued. I didn't blame them, but couldn't they be a little subtle? I recognized some of the students, but most of them were strangers. Unlike the corridor in my dream, this one was filled with light, people and noises. I walked around making sure to take in the changes that I didn't recognize. Most of the school was still the same. I had reached the east-side courtyard and was walking down to the principal's office. There was no sign on the door of the room which said “Principal's Office” but I opened the door anyway. The room was empty. I looked around to make sure I was on the right floor and at the right place. Yes, I was. It was the ground floor and the east-side of the school. But where did Ms. Wegner's office go? I started to panic. People passing me by stared at me like I was someone crazy, but did not care to ask what the matter was.

“Christine?” I heard someone say.

I turned around to see Lauren McKain, one of my best friends, staring at me. I had never been so relieved to see her. I rushed towards her and she hugged me tightly.

“Oh, my God. How are you?” She asked, excitedly.

“I am fine, Ren. How have you been?” I asked her.

She stood there with me, wearing a blue denim skirt paired with a black top and her black boots.

“Oh, I have been great. I missed you, C. We missed you.” She said.

“I missed you all too.” I said with a smile.

“What are you doing here? This is east side, our classes are in the exact opposite direction.”

My cheeks turned red with embarrassment. “Ugh, actually, I was looking for the Ms. Wegner's office. Wasn't it here only?”

She looked puzzled. “No, it was shifted to the second floor, west-side four months ago. What, you don't remember?”

I smacked my head dramatically and replied “Oh yes, I forgot.”

She asked me jokingly, “What, did you hit your head pretty hard during that accident?”

I shook my head at her. She suddenly realized what she had said and apologized. “I am sorry, Christine. How's Mr. Johnson now? The newspapers said he's in coma.”

I mumbled, trying to hide the sadness in my voice, “He's still the same.”

She squeezed my hand. “Come, let's go to the principal's office.”

I smiled at her. She accompanied me to the office. It had been shifted to the floor where our classes were. Sadly, I didn't remember any of it.

“Go on, I will wait for you outside,” Lauren said.

“Alright, I won't be long”

 

***

 

I entered the office, and this time the room wasn't empty. Ms. Wegner was sitting in her chair, wearing a black suit with her black stilettos, doing some paper work. The air conditioner was on full blast and I shivered slightly. Ms. Wegner saw me come in and gave me a warm smile.

“Hello, Ms. Wegner,” I said.

“Good morning, Christine. Have a seat, please”

I sat in the comfortable leather chair kept in front of Ms.Wegner's mahogany table.

“How are you, now?” She asked me sweetly.

“Oh, I am fine Ms. Wegner. A lot better.”

She pursed her lips. “I am sorry about your father, dear.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

Her face brightened, “Welcome back to Maine High School. I am sure people here missed you a lot,” she said with a smile. “I have been informed about your memory condition. Something amnesia, right?”

“Retrograde amnesia.”

She nodded. “The school staff and I will be here for you if you need anything. Don't hesitate to ask help.”

“Yes, of course, Ms. Wegner,” I said.

She handed me a piece of paper. “Here's your class schedule. You may go, now. Have a great day.” She gave me another bright smile.

“Thank you, Ms. Wegner. You have a great day too.” I replied back.

 

***

 

I walked out of the room and a wave of heat hit me hard. God, it was so much better inside the office. Lauren was still sitting outside, looking at her reflection in the glass table in front of her and applying lip gloss. She saw me coming out of the office and I rolled my eyes at her. We chatted all through the way to our class. There were a million things to talk about. Walking down to our class, I took in everything and everyone around me, trying to remember the changes I didn't recognize and keeping them in mind. Lauren was genuinely happy to see me again, and her happiness was quite contagious. She made up for the bad start of the day. Today can't be that bad, I thought to myself. I couldn't wait to meet the rest of the gang.

“Why didn't you return any of our calls?” She asked me, narrowing her eyes.

“Oh, I am sorry. I just needed my time to heal. And I wanted today to be a surprise,” I winked at her.

“Chloe and Jane are going to be so happy to see you,” she said excitedly.

“I hope so,” I replied. “So, what's new?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Just the usual. Chloe dumped Micheal”

What? Micheal? When did she go out with him? I thought she was going out with Scott.

“Why?” I asked. “They were such a great couple.”

“You know Chloe. She got bored of him and left him. Poor, Micheal. He really liked her.”

“I know. They had been together for how long?” I asked her.

“You don't remember? She started dating him a few months after Scott dumped her.” She said.

Scott dumped her? Why would he dump her? Oh, God, I missed out on a lot.

“Oh, yes. Now I remember.” I replied, trying to recall when these things I missed happened. Nothing clicked my mind. I sighed.

Lauren looked at me, puzzled. I wondered if I should tell her about the memory loss thing. I don't think it is a good idea because I don't want people looking at me with pity.

She whispered to me, “God, C, you are popular now. I will have to get used to the stares while I am with you.”

I groaned. “Yea, I know. It's not going to be easy, really.”

She giggled. “I think I am going to enjoy this.”

I walked around keeping check of my surroundings and the people around me. Many waved at me; I smiled at them, to be polite. Some even stopped to ask me how I have been. I remembered most of them, that's good.

Just then, Matt, one of my classmates, came out of a class room. He stopped right in his tracks when he saw me.

“What the hell,” he cried, clearly delighted to see me. 

“Why does Matt Preston look like he wants to eat me up?” I whispered to Lauren. 

She stared back at me with a blank expression. Just when she was about to say something, Matt had rushed towards me and pulled me into an awkward embrace. He kissed my nose and whispered in my ear, “Your baby missed you.”

My eyes widened and two words escaped my mouth. “Oh, no.”

 

 

Chapter 3

“Ain’t it getting a bit outta hand?”

Demarco Corrigan puffed out thick wisps of cigarette smoke. He loved smoking. Smoking had style. He smoked all the time. He smoked when he was dealing. He smoked when he was beating up people. He smoked when he was running from cops. He even smoked when he took a shit. Those ‘Smoking Kills’ footers were for ninnies.  He looked at the dark-haired kid sitting in front of him, and repeated: “Ain’t it getting a bit outta hand?”

The kid sniffed twice and rubbed his nose with the back of his palm. He was tall with an athletic build, long legs. He wore a dirty white t-shirt and black trousers. He looked up, and his gaze met Demarco’s.

“I just wanna do a few more hits.” He had a low, but firm voice.

Demarco took out another cigarette from his pack of camels and held out the pack at the kid. “You want one, Jesse?”

Jesse shook his head.

Demarco sighed. “You have started shooting ‘em up, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Jesse shrugged, unblinking.

“Look, kiddo, shooting coke is a whole different ballgame. And what I sell you is pure shit. You start hitting them in your veins and you are gonna turn into seaweed in no time. Believe me, it will burn you out.”

Jesse leaned forward and swiped away the pack from Demarco’s hand. He removed a cigarette, placed the filter end between his lips. Demarco tossed the lighter at him. He lighted the cigar and leaned back, taking in deep puffs.

He wasn’t immature, Demarco decided. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had a grief to burn. He sure didn’t look like the ones who did coke for the hell of it.

“Just a bit for the night,” Jesse said, his gaze unwavering.

“And you gotta start paying for the stuff. I am not a fucking bartender who keeps tabs.”

“I’ll pay you, Mark.”

Demarco leaned forward and lowered his voice: “I have told you this and I am telling you again. I am just a fucking nobody in the lowest echelons of this food chain. I keep pushing out stuff without payments, someone’s gonna notice. And , frankly, I love my work too much.”

“Just give me the damn thing, Mark. I’ll pay you this weekend. I promise.”

Demarco ran his finger over a scar on his forehead absentmindedly. He knew he wasn’t a cutthroat businessman. He was just good at beating up guys. And he didn’t wanna thrash this one. This one had a pretty face. And a warm heart. He looked at the dirty walls of the cabin. Everything was so dismal and bleak. The memories of that night faded in.

 Rain poured from the skies without mercy. A man lay in a puddle outside a football field, shirt and trousers torn to pieces. He didn’t move, didn’t want to move. His body was shaking. Not from the cold, but from shock. He closed his eyes and prayed for death to take him in her arms. He had no loved ones to picture in his mind for the last time. No regrets. No sorrow. Just agony.

“Hey man, you still alive?” came a distant, subdued voice.

He opened his eyes. A hazy figure was crouched on the muddied ground, examining him. He managed a small nod.

“That’s a nasty gash on your head.”

The man closed his eyes again. However hard he might try, one feeling kept surfacing again and again. The feeling that he wasn’t gonna die that day.

“Earth to Mark. Earth to Mark.”

Demarco returned from his thoughts. He took a look at Jesse and mumbled to himself, “Oh what the hell.” He reached for his socks and retrieved a tiny plastic packet containing a white powder. He slid it across to Jesse.

“Thanks,” Jesse said, pocketing the drug. “Oh, and can I have another one of those?” he asked indicating at the cigarette pack, “they are the shit.”

Demarco gave a wan smile. “Take the pack. There’s a whole lot where this came from.”

“Don’t worry. I will pay you this weekend.”

Demarco took out a pen and a slip of paper from his pocket. He scribbled something and held it out at him. “This is what you’ll be paying.”

“No problem,” Jesse said, standing up.

“And don’t overdo it,” Demarco said, pointing at the pocket where Jesse had kept the drug.

Jesse gave an affable smile, and left.

He seems to be in control, Demarco thought. He can take care of himself.

“What’s the deal with the guy?”

Demarco turned around. It was Zinger. Boss’s right hand. “Nothing,” he replied.

“C’mon. He has been freeballing coke for weeks now. I watch everything,” Zinger said, walking up to him. Everybody hated Zinger. Hated and feared. There were numerous rumours to why his Mohawk was half-blond half-red in color. One rumour was that he struck off the head of a guy with one swing of the axe, and the blood splattered on his face and hair, turning the front half of the Mohawk red. There were some other funny versions too. But right now he didn’t seem to be in a funny mood.

“He saved my life once.”

“Oh, well that explains quite a lot. But what I am more interested in the explanation as to what you’ll do if he doesn’t pay up.”

“I’ll do what’s necessary,” Demarco replied, his face emotionless.

“Attaboy,” Zinger said, patting his shoulder.

 

After Zinger was gone, Demarco went inside the cabin or, as they called it, ‘the Den’. A half-dozen people sat scattered around the room on sofas, lost in paradise. They came here every day, to destroy the remaining part of their lives, and sink into deeper crevices of insanity. Demarco took a look at them and felt disgusted. They looked like skeletons ready to give up their skin any moment.

He reached inside a drawer and took out a new pack of camels. Methodically, he retrieved a cigarette and lighted it. You had to agree, smoking had style.  As he looked at the druggies again, his thoughts went back to Jesse. He had changed a lot, Jesse had. Demarco recalled how Jesse and his uncle had taken care of him. For two whole months. And Jesse used to be a fun kid back then. So full of life. So ebullient. Now, he had become so subdued and phlegmatic. He still had that warm heart. But yet, Demarco wondered, what happened to Jesse?  

 ***

Jesse walked through the cobblestone streets; hands sunk deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the path. He looked around once in a while, catching a peek of what was happening in the environ.  He had always liked it in Portland, particularly Old Port. The place had a certain charm to it. Like a small town. And there were people everywhere. In cafes, bookshops, restaurants, and on the streets, strolling in the fine weather. Nobody seemed to have a damn care in the world. He used to love that thing about Old Port. Now he just felt disgusted.

Every where he looked, there were smiling faces. Some laughing ones too. But he knew that deep inside that was not what they were. Deep inside, everyone was different. Everyone held some sort of remorse; some sort of pain. So did smiling and pretending make it any better? No, it didn’t. Jesse knew that. He had tried it himself and then cursed himself later for even hoping it would work.

Or maybe it’s just me, Jesse thought. Maybe I am just losing my mind. But at this point he certainly didn’t care. He felt for the pouch in his pocket. Satisfied that it was still in there, he increased his pace. He had started using a couple of weeks ago; wary at first, then totally lost to it. He’d lock himself in his room, and lose himself to paradise. At the beginning he snorted lines, two or three at a time. He upped it when the tolerance began to build, and by the second week he was at the local medicine store nicking syringes. IV-ing coke was like sitting on the wings of a 747, 30,000 feet above the ground. After the first time, he had never looked back.

He passed through the bustling markets to an old pier. He stopped and looked at the setting sun across the horizon. The waters reflected different shades of crimson. He sighed. He despised this life so much. Everything felt fake to him. Sometimes he had felt like jumping into the water. He didn’t know how to swim. But he knew he couldn’t. Just not right now. He patted the lump in his pocket and turned around to a small cabin a few yards away. He walked to the door and knocked. He heard some movement inside and a couple of grunts before the door opened. A weary, haggard face peeked out of it. “Oh, hey,” the man said, recognising Jesse. “You’re back early.” He opened the door wide and stood aside as Jesse barged in without a word.  

***

Jesse sat on the floor. He was in his room, locked from inside. He’d always lock himself in his room, whether he was using or not using. To keep out his uncle. He hadn’t talked to him in a while and certainly wasn’t starting now. He didn’t want anything to do with his uncle. What he felt for his uncle was not hatred; it was disgust. He didn’t know whom he despised more: himself or that old man he shared the roof with.

He looked down on the mat spread in front of him. The pouch was on it, half open. He took a tiny spoon and nicked some powder from it. Then he looked back at the pouch. The hell with it, he thought, emptying the pouch in a small Petri-dish. He took the syringe and filled it with water, which he then emptied in the Petri-dish. He repeated the same again and the water level reached the brim. Then he mixed coke carefully. He filled one fourth of the syringe with the mixture. He didn’t wanna start large. He knew he had built tolerance to that much of coke, but upping the dose with each subsequent shot had its perks.

He positioned the needle on the pouch and busied himself with swabbing. He folded the sleeves of the t-shirt till his shoulder. There were marks on his arm already, bluish-black in colour. He took a rubber cord and wrapped it around his arm a couple of inches above the elbow; he crossed the cord at the middle and took one end in the same hand and the other end he held tightly in his jaws. As he straightened the hand, the cord tightened up. A couple of veins stood up against his skin. He chose the one which he had least used. “Your lucky day, babe,” he mumbled, teeth still clenched tightly on the cord.

He started swabbing the vein with cotton dabbed in alcohol. He could already feel himself burning with anticipation. His hand was shaking slightly as he hurried to get the first shot. He checked the syringe for any air bubbles. He held the syringe by its barrel, keeping it slightly inclined to his arm. He jabbed the needle in and pulled back the plunger a bit. A crimson fluid gushed into the mixture forming swirls at the needle end. Then he drove the plunger home.

He released the cord and retracted the needle immediately. Then her held the cotton to the vein and sat back against the wall. Within seconds, he felt the metallic taste in his mouth. It was delicious. He knew he had boarded the train. He was in for the ride of his life.

His heart started to beat faster, and his breathing accelerated. He started to sweat and he could feel a tingling sensation in his legs. His vision started getting distorted. He closed his eyes. He could hear the thumping of his heart in his ears. The euphoria burst into a blinding flash of ecstasy that surged through his body and shook him with pleasure.

Minutes later, he held the syringe in hand, ready for the next shot. This time he had filled the syringe three-fourths. He injected it again and sat back, the metallic taste spreading around his tongue.  He looked down at the Petri-dish which seemed to have duplicated into another Petridish. There was a whole lot of watered coke left. He almost heard an evil laugh resounding in his ears. As the flash hit his body stronger than ever before, he knew he was gonna plunge it again. And again. And yet again. Till he could feel no more. 

[TO BE CONTINUED]

The exact copy of the book can be found in my co-witer's profile: phoenixfromashes. If you like the story so far, please add it as your favorite and leave a comment. All suggestions are welcomed. Thank you! :)

Impressum

Texte: Ishita Garg & Adam Woods
Bildmaterialien: Ishita Garg & Adam Woods
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.07.2013

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