Breather

I...I was at Randy’s, last night, and things were going great. There were a lot of people, even more than usual. A few drinks, a few songs later, and I’m sitting with Leena, Jessica, Randy, and a few other people, basically at peak feel-good mode. 

And then Randy’s punk friend pulls out a baggie with these little capsules, glowing bright baby blue under the blacklights. Randy pushes a wad of bills over the table, and his buddy starts doling them out.

I’m all for having a good time, but drugs have always scared me...It’s probably no big deal, or stupid, or something, but I’ve never crossed that line. I figure I can ruin my liver all I want, as long as I don’t start fucking with my brain at the same time.

But...but this sudden...something welled up in my brain, and I was taking them. I was picking them up, and scarfing them down quick as I could, like a starving man in a famine. I tried to stop but I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t just put them down, and soon everything had this weird filter on; people’s features were distorting, and the colours were constantly shifting and taking on wrong tints and everyone was laughing and I was laughing too and moving even when I didn’t want to move-

I don’t...I don’t remember much, after that. I think I blacked out. I must have blacked out. My head still hurts. Randy called me, and I tried to talk to him, tried to ask him what I’d been on, but he was confused. 

“It’s not like that was your first time, man; you did the same at Jessica’s.” I ended the call after that. 

I...I think I’m going to take a break from partying, for the next week, at least...I’ll end this here, my shoulder is really hurting...

I woke up half-dressed today. My pants were about my ankles, and I’d  put on the sports jacket I always wear when I go out halfway. I went into the bathroom, put some cold water over my face. My jacket’s got these gross stains from I-don’t-want-to-know-what, so now I have to wash it.

There are...there are bits and pieces coming back to me...A lot of loud noise, standing over someone drooling on the floor, something warm running through my fingers...It’s a pretty vivid sort of dream.

But don’t worry, the rest of the day only got worse. 

I staggered into the kitchen to find a small black box waiting for me on the table. A note from dad lay beside it, informing me that “coming and going at such early hours is unacceptable” and that “it’s time for you to deal with it”. 

So I lifted up the lid, and I found this little leather-bound book. The same one that I’d always seen clutched in mangled hands for three long months, when it wasn’t being defaced by nearly illegible scribbling.

My grandfather’s journal.

I can’t deal with this, I’m not dealing with this, it’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t need to keep thinking of him I see him every night in my dreams when I sleep I don’t want to sleep anymore FUCkcKC HTIS

That voice at the back of my head is telling me that I need to go out and I’m done fighting it I need to get away from here