Out Of Your Mind

You glance at the clock, a stubborn smirk already creeping up your face. As always, the timing is impeccable, and you have arrived, once again, fashionably late. Well, as fashionable as you could possibly be, walking stiffly and frantically paranoid that someone is watching you. They are already there – an impossibly small group of people dominating such a large place. Slouching on the bench, one of my associates wears a buzz cut, with a stony expression, daring anyone passing a fight that will only ever have one victor. Beside him, the one who lives rough is perched on the end, his unprivileged lifestyle showing in every inch of his demeanour and grubby face. And, clearly, the third one is the group leader, his presence an ever looming pressure to say the right comments and make the right jokes. You have never known, and never will know their names, yet they are always there, in the derelict park on a Thursday afternoon, where no child dares to visit any more. The paint is already peeling off the sorry benches, and the red swings are rusted with unuse. As if reading your mind, the alpha wolf's lips tug up into a snarl, readying to hurl expletives, and in the worst case: spit, into your unflinching, calm face for not conforming to his set meeting time.

Underneath the pretend facade, your emotions are running riot, working up a frenzy in your spent mind, leaving you wishing for what the nameless men could give you. Yet, despite all the havoc inside, you still can't stop that stubborn smirk lurking on your face, knowing that enchanting harmony would soon be arriving in a plastic bag, and to the whole world looking, just a packet of sugar.

Yes, perhaps they would suspect drugs by looking at the stereotypical dealers; the piercings, regretted tattoos and the shady presence they always carry. But you, no, they would never suspect that you are blissfully high every Thursday, so incapable of speech, limb movement and any coherent thought by two o'clock. Why would they? To all the world, you look like an honest businessman, slowly working himself a small fortune, probably with a modest wife and two adorable kids. Nothing special. They would never know beyond a glimpse that you don't have, nor desire any of those things. Yet, nobody ever gives more than a glimpse, no more than a sweeping glance. Bringing you back to the present, where you are realizing again why you came to this park, and every Thursday before today– to get out of your mind, to get out of this world filled with malevolence in every crevice.

Reaching for the drugs concealed in his hand, a small sigh of relief escapes your mouth. Picking up on the desperation, the dealer snatches his hand back, humour twinkling in his eyes and a taunting grin stretching his mouth wide to reveal stained, jagged teeth. 'Tut, tut... you know the deal.' His lackeys snigger, seeing a wretched, deprived man pining what they hold, knowing full well and revelling in the fact that they hold all the power.

'Give it and I'll pay you later.' You lunge for the bag, speech becoming harder as the craving tries to consume everything whilst a small grunt of anticipation shows the only emotion you let slip.

Before you know any else, the drugs are already in your system, fizzing and boiling, disorientating your senses and relieving your mind of stress.

Your eyes crack open at an obtrusively loud and pealing noise. Squinting past your lashes, blue and red lights flash and glare, starting a synchronised throbbing in your head. A blurred figure runs past you, too far to crane you aching neck to follow his seemingly desperate departure. As if there is a thick and dirty film covering your senses, a muffled gunshot pierces the ringing in your ears and the monotonous police sirens. And then the welcoming black starts to creep in around your already struggling vision again, bringing an overwhelming impulse to just just drift back off into oblivion. So you let it, just as you have every single Thursday when life seems too challenging to wake to. You once again, let go of your mind, the tether securing you to reality. And you yet again, as precise as clockwork, let the silence wash over you in calming waves - until you wake to find the world as irreparable as you left it.

For the second time, you are disturbed in your dreamless slumber by the shrieking of a bird. Your body has worked vigorously to clear any remaining heroin from your system, and now you just feel like a carcass, the soul having being drained away along with the drug. This is always the worst part, when you wake up wishing there is more. More to life. There never is. Your legs are numb from hours of being cramped up in the same space. Finally, you start to realize your surroundings, your mind still foggy and knowing that the harder you try to fight the mist, the more it crowds in. Taking deep breaths, a fierce chill nips you and a brutal wind exuberantly and tirelessly bashes you. After a minute of serene calmness, you start to feel your senses focusing, seeing the dirt and leaves scattered on your torn clothes. By now the sky is veiled by an unforgiving black, and you discern that you have woken up in bush, crammed in by leaves and ivy. With more effort than is usually necessary, you push yourself up to your feet, stumbling like a hopeless drunk. Every time you rouse, it is like trying to learn how to walk again. Steps always seem enigmatic and impossible, as if all 32 years of travel have been effortlessly erased.

But what startles you fully awake is what you now see. In the pale moonlight, you can see a man on the ground. He lays motionless, a pool of liquid surrounding him. Crowding him. Too much blood. So much. Wonder if the police here earlier were just a figment of your imagination. Rubbing your hands on you face, you truly realize how strong that batch of heroin really was. Usually, you manage to make it back to your boring apartment, and usually you remember dropping to the red, sick- stained couch and sleeping like the dead. Ha, how appropriate, you think. As you stare at your hands, covered with dark splashes of blood, and contemplate what happened that has managed to evade your memory.