Behind closed eyelids there is still light painted by dreams. As the world evaporates from my eyes, I can still see. Death is the only certainty in life. We’re all prisoners in our bodies.
I’ve been shooting heroin for three months now. I inject it three times a day. The sensation I feel when I go without it for a brief amount of time is excruciating. Like a sickly fever. It all started as a fantasy. I would toy with the idea of trying drugs in my mind and romanticize the addict’s lifestyle. There’s a certain glamor that only suffering can bring about. Every addict is a Christlike figure in my mind—or used to be. After having suffered through withdrawals, my rose-colored glasses turned to shades. When you finally realize you’re playing with fire, you’re already burned, like the surface of a bent silver spoon.
Addicts don’t age; they wither like dried up flowers. Few grow old. Some do, but most don’t. It takes so little effort to get hooked, but to get clean is like swimming across a vast,unexplored ocean. I wish someone could share my mind and see all the intricacies and the self-doubt, the self-hatred, and the all-encompassing love I have for every living creature. Once you have truly suffered and experienced heartbreak, you want to exalt everyone because no one should feel like that.
Though they are not visible, I can touch the bars of the tiny cage that surrounds me. I’m a prisoner of my mind, of my body, of my used up soul. I’m a slave to my self-destructive vices. A sickly recluse of myself.
The streets are dimly lit and silent. I drive down the avenue,looking for Frank. He told me he’d meet me at the corner of Cyprus Avenue with the batch. I circle the block twice while attentively checking for a shady character in strange clothing.A man in a black coat, jeans, and a wool hat stands discreetly by a streetlight. I park by the side of the road and wait for him to enter my car.
“Hi, Will. I’ve got some bad news. The deal was delayed. I know you’re really sick, but I’ve got something else. It’s brand new.” Frank reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrapper of cellophane.
“What’s this shit? It better not be speed.”
“No, I got it yesterday. It’s called K. It gives you beautiful dreams. I took it before I went to bed last night and had the most intense visuals, like a DMT trip that lasted for hours.”Frank unwraps the cellophane and places the bundle in my hand.
“It looks like coke,” I say.
“Coke is like snorting sugar compared to this.”
I wait for Frank to exit and close the door before I start the arduous yet giddy journey home. The whole ride I picture myself opening the package and dividing the powder into lines and snorting it with excitement. As I drift along, I check for police cruisers while intermittently gazing in the rearview mirror at the creeping lights behind.
I view this year as an aberration. A lost year that might stretch to a decade. Sometimes I miss myself.
The powder falls like snow on the kitchen counter. I divide it into lines with a steel razor blade. After rolling the dollar bill,I snort the shit and think of nothing.
The moment before you fall asleep is always forgotten.
William Merrick is consumed by visions. He sees the universe inside a crystal ball that he holds in his hand. Stars are visible inside. He clenches his fist, and the ball implodes and then expands and consumes him. Suddenly, he’s standing on a dead planet. A burning sun hangs before him. Multiple moons circulate at rapid speed with a violet sky above. As the acid rain cascades from the heavens, William Merrick lies on his back and looks at the psychedelic clouds taking different shapes. Before he knows it, he’s lying in a bathtub, the corners of the bathroom slightly illuminated by candlelight. He sinks below the surface and gazes at the distant stars above. Theelectric moon is pulsating with blue light.
The countryside is green and desolate as William Merrick walks along a gravelly road with scattered trees surrounding him. The sun is setting in the distance, and spring is in the air. He’s high on a mixture of codeine tablets and amphetamines. Above, he spots a flock of birds cascading, His thoughts wander into the dark recesses of his mind.
“It’s trauma that shapes us. Our childhood leaves imprints on our souls, which takes a lifetime to remove. I’m a strict determinist. There is no free will, and being an addict is a testament to that.”
As he trudges along, a forest appears before him. The trees are bare. William wanders through a twisting path, further into the depths.
“Whatever will happen has already happened. There is nothing new under the sun.”
The trees clear as William arrives at a large meadow. The sea is visible in the distance. The sky is a bright blue, and the mood in the air is of beautiful melancholy.
“A door that won’t open to a room with no window.”
After removing his shoes and socks, William dips his feet into the cold, refreshing water.
“I wish I could have a conversation with Isaac Newton.”
Straining and kicking, he wades into the clear green sea and swims until he can’t see land.
I sit in silence and stare at a painting on the wall. Dali’s colors are remarkable. The darkness is vibrant. Christ’s arms are stretched wide like wings. I didn’t have bags under my eyes before, but now I do. The last line of K is on the kitchen counter. I’ve used it for a few months now. I’ve tried to call Frank for more, but it went to voicemail. As I look in the mirror, I notice my eyes are changing color: what used to be blue is now a sickly yellow. The left pupil is dilated. My arms are scabbed and bruised. As I touch my back, I feel what appears to be wings protruding through my skin. I’ve gone without food for a few days and look thin and faded. The substance is my master, and it’s taking everything from me. The voices are starting to break through. When I stop using for a few days, my dreams turn black. Horrific visions of burning corpses and bloody skulls enter my mind as I sleep. Even when I’m awake, I see apparitions and distorted creatures in the corner of my view.
Look at me, God. Will my wings be beautiful?
The bathroom is slightly illuminated by candlelight. I gaze at my frightened expression in the mirror. The wing on my left side is almost fully extruded now. It’s black with hints of red along the edges. Scales are forming along my wrist, all the way to my elbow. The color of my eyes has turned to an ominous white, resembling a person having an epileptic fit. I started injecting K instead of snorting it. Once you remove the needle you instantly fall asleep and start dreaming, like an overdose you always wake from. It’s not possible to die from K, but I’ve heard stories from Frank about junkies who inject too much and end up in a permanent sleep, like a coma. Why would anyone use this horrific substance? Why would anyone choose to live their lives in servitude to this nightmare elixir? I never realized how addictive it was. I didn’t know the effects it would have on my mind and body. I’m beyond terrified, but I can’t quit.
I try calling Frank, but again the call goes to voicemail. I can’t leave my apartment and look for him in the state I’m in. I haven’t used K for a few days now, and the withdrawals are beyond devastating. The nightmares have returned, and even when I’m awake I feel as if I live in a dreamlike state. I still see hallucinations and apparitions; ghostly images of shadow creatures penetrate my periphery. I hear voices as I pass through the hall. They seem to emerge from my bedroom, but as I walk and open the door, the room is empty. The silence is visible.
Instead of wasting away in isolation I decide to wither away on the street, though I only go out late at night. I’m clothed in a heavy black coat to shield my wings, and over my face I wear a bag. I float down the avenue, and the moon, which is bright and yellow, is leading my way. I make my way to Frank’s apartment complex, and while standing outside I gaze at his window. There’s no light on, so he might not be home or awake. I grab a stone and throw it against the glass. While waiting I think of my childhood and feel tearful. Suddenly a light turns on, and what emerges through the elucidated darkness is a grotesque creature. Frank’s eyes are completely black, and his wings are stretched wide with scabs and bruises on the edges. His face is deformed and looks like a strange insect. He places his disfigured hand against the glass before turning off the light, leaving me standing alone in the shadows with tears streaming down my face.
What will be left of me when my disfigured body turns to dust? I think of my mother in the mental asylum. My apartment used to feel like a sanctuary, but now it resembles a penal colony. When you get used to solitude, it can be comforting to be alone. Sometimes I imagine the afterlife as an empty mansion on a hill. I imagine passing through the corridors and bedrooms, searching for something that can’t be found. Whatever it is I’m looking for, I don’t know.
I put the book down for a moment and consider the light in the distance. The glow is reflected on the surface of the lake. It’s distinctly red. There are things only words can accomplish. I’m a prisoner of my mind. I like it when the words float from the lines of the paper. Sometimes I miss the person I was a minute ago.
I stand on my balcony and look at the people swarming like insects on the pavement below. I consider climbing over the rail but think better of it. I have a last bundle of K in my closetthat I will inject it when I’m ready. It’s enough so that I’ll disappear into an infinite dream. I try calling my mother to say goodbye, but it goes to voicemail. I miss Frank, too. He must be dead by now. I can’t shake the nightmarish image of him standing by the window from my mind. And although I shouldn’t, I forgive him. He doomed us both, but I should have been more cautious and researched what I put into my body. As I add the final lines to my farewell letter, I notice therain cascading through the sunlight outside my bedroom window. I walk over and place my bruised and deformed hand against the glass. I feel touched and understood by the cosmic order, and I finally recognize that there is no reason to be afraid.
I tie a belt around my bicep until I can see my veins. I press the plunger in and untie the knot. After that I inject the K and lean back in my chair.
Whatever I am, I was, and will be.
The countryside is covered in snow as William Merrick walks along a gravelly road with withered trees scattered around him. The sun is rising in the distance, and winter is in the air. He’s completely sober and feels happiness for the first time. In a barren field he spots a murder of crows taking flight. As he trudges along, a forest appears before him. The trees are bare. William wanders through a twisting path, further into the depths. The trees clear as he arrives at a large meadow. The sea is visible in the distance. The sky is dark gray and the mood in the air is solemn. Removing his shoes and socks,William places his feet on the frozen ice.
With clipped wings and slightly adrift, he walks until he can’t see land.
Gabriel Wing 