Fearless

I want to get high.

Or low.

Anything that means I’m not living in this version of reality anymore.

Crack.

Smack.

Dope.

Speed.

Blow.

It’s all the same after a while.

My old dealer’s been leaving me high and dry. Dunno why. His problem. Plenty of others out there.

“Hey kid, wanna try some drugs?”

I should be so lucky. Why isn't that part of reality like the world of TV?

Walk. Walk. Walk. The universe is coming back into blurry, black and white focus.

Should I go for acid? Bring back the technicolour. Doesn’t stop the sweats already seeping through my shirt. Leave a flood behind me, sinking down my feet and into the cement below. The sky is dark. One shade of black. I miss when there was three hundred and fifty.

See Alec talking in a group. Ignore him. Maybe tell him to fuck off; not sure what I say anymore. Mouth too dry and world too dull.

Other groups huddled around. Avoid crushed beer cans and syringes glistening off the moon. The only thing that stands out in the world of reality. Not worth the risk. Have higher standards than sloppy seconds.

Ask one. Ask two. Ask three.

"Why the fuck don't you want my money?"

Paranoid. Need to smoke less weed.

Other areas. Quieter, less options. Probably cut with fucking rat poison or some shit, but I’m getting desperate. Maybe buy two grams, save one for Alec. 

Ha.

Petty revenge.

Butter him up all sweet. Only fifty bucks in my pocket, but my mouth is free and easy.

Feeling sick. Nothing in my stomach to bring up. Nothing in my mouth to water. Almost there, now. Dodgy part of the streets. Well, dodgier. Don’t got no high class, high end boutiques here in the wonderful land of Joan’s Town.

Not to be confused with Jonestown ‘cause nobody’s about to give that laced Kool-Aid away for free.

Spotted. One hand holding phone to ear, one his pocket. Jitters. User and supplier — which they warn you to never do.

So I chose user. Maybe not what the Big Guys had in mind when when they wrote up the advice.

No matter.

No matter.

Smack is the chef's special of the day. Reasonably priced. Nice guy. Maybe we can start a new business relationship.

“What’s your name, guy?” I ask. Takes all my strength to stay and ask when my body is begging, weeping, sobbing to have some of that sweet juice.

“Not Guy,” he says. Lights up a smoke. Maybe his only vice is nicotine. Never developed the taste for it myself.

“Okay, okay.” Backing away now. Addict brain taking control. Dopamine. Dopamine. Why can’t they just invent a way to inject that directly into the vein?

Corner. Hidden. Darkness is my mistress and all of that.

Shoot.

Slump.

Bliss.

*

London bridge is falling down,

falling down,

falling down.

Can’t come down.

Can’t come down.

No more bliss. Just no pain.

At least the world isn't still faded.

Phone is dead. Or cracked. Hard to tell anymore. Why didn’t I get Guy’s number?

Idiot.

Probably gonna die alone in puke alley. Didn’t even save enough of the stuff to shove down Alec’s throat.

Stumble into the streets. Lights are too bright.

Add my own puke to the ecosystem.

Maybe it’s all just a migraine. Stranger things have happened.

Up ahead of me, bright red smoke tendrils. Fuck. I’m dead. On a highway to hell.

No.

Wait.

A lady.

Fire, curly red hair and freckles that seem 3D. Leather jacket, smooth, I want to reach out and touch but even high I have restraint. People deserve respect. Mantra. Repeat.

“Are you okay?” her voice is an angelic beacon amongst all of this. I can even see the halo. Can’t just be a street light. Nuh-uh.

“Who are you?” I ask. The only words my mouth wants to make. That or kissing her. God. She’s perfect.

“Helena,” she says. Touches my arm. Sparks, they dull the strange high. They're better than any drug.

“Helena,” I say. “You launched a thousand ships.”

Earns me a smile that launches my heart instead. "Close enough."

Turn around.

Look up.

Look down—

But can’t

come

down.

“Helena,” I say again. I can’t see her anymore. No red fiery curls, no freckles almost reaching the tips of my fingers, no slick leather arms that would cool my racing heart.

Maybe the lace is hallucinogenic;

I did want it.

Ask and ye shell receive.

Walk.

Step.

One foot in front of the other.

Waiting to feel that rush of sobriety — so alike but so opposing to the shooting up.

More walking. Turn a street. Shortcut through a park coated in litter and dog shit. The angel is there again, but this time she’s not alone.

It’s not weird to see a homeless guy here — they’re just part of the ecosystem. But he’s not slumped on a park bench like I’m meant to observe. He’s with Helena. Too close. She’s got her bag held in her hand, backing up. Shit. Tree’s there. Smash. So downright bounces and lands in homeless guys arms.

It would be romantic if it weren’t so, you know, disgusting.

I walk right over. Something I would never do, but my legs are moving and my hands are clenching, and then I’m there.

“What’s your problem?” That’s me. Or maybe it’s homeless guy.

Hard to tell. Still too high to be rational.

“Leave her alone.” Definitely me.

“Fuck off, kid.” Him.

I punch him. Which, looking back, is always a bad move and makes Helena run off rather than fawn over me with praise.

And then.

Nothing.

Like the high is gone and my consciousness along with it.

*

Wake up.

Not home.

The world is radio silence. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Still not feeling right.

Find my voice and say: “The fuck am I?”

“You mean where?”

“The fuck are you?”

“You mean who?”

Blinding light.

A man walks out from a door in the far corner. I have to squint while my eyes adjust. Blonde, tall, dressed in jeans and a fucking polo shirt. He’s not from the crowd I run in. I’ve never seen this guy in my life.

I try to stand, to leave out the door he’s left open, but it’s then my brain starts churning over again and I realise I’m strapped down. Two wrists. Two ankles. Pull, pain. Leather straps done up as tight as possible on my fragile little joints.

“You were a bitch to strap in, you know,” this guy says.

“I’m sure I was easy to carry.”

“That part’s true.”

He’s in front of me. His breath smells like citrus; like when you tear your thumb into an orange and it comes out burning because chewing the skin around your fingers is a coping mechanisms for drug withdrawal.

Right now I have no withdrawal. I’m still running despite the hours — how many? Twelve? Twenty? — that have past. Like a hangover without the hangover. Still drunk when you wake up and know you shouldn’t drive, but your boss has a poker on your arse and you need that $15 an hour to keep up the drugs and booze.

Endless cycle. Around and around like the Earth around the sun.

Or maybe Saturn. 29 years on the same orbit. Rings of addiction never letting me go. No solid surface to stand on. No atmosphere to breathe.

“I’m Chris,” the guy says.

“Nice,” I say. “The fuck am I doing here?”

“What’s your name?”

“The fuck’s it to you?”

“You swear a lot, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t need your name, but it might help, don’t you think?” Chris drags a chair over from a table nearby. Real cosy in here, with a couch and TV and some generic landscape canvas on the wall. Would be quaint if it weren’t for the fact I’m tied to the damn chair. “So, I’m Chris. And I bet you’re wondering—”

“Why I’m here? Damn fucking right.”

“Well, yeah,” Chris says. Little smile, dimples deep enough to pit stones. “But I was going to say, I’m sure you’re wondering what just happened in the park back there, huh?”

“Bad trip,” I say. “Druggie. Look at my arms.”

I point my head down. Would roll up my sleeves if I could, you know, move my hands.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chris says. “You realise you got a bad hit, I

presume?”

I shrug. “I guess. Starting to think it’s not too bad, actually. Twenty bucks and a forever high? Guy who sold it to me is gonna go out of business quick.”

Chris leans in closer. I look at his eyes. Same blue as the ocean or sky on a clear day; not the cobalt from the girl last night. What happened to her? If I could get out of here, I’d go stumbling back down that street. At least thank her for giving a shit about my wellbeing. Make sure homeless guy came out worse off than her.

“What was the guy’s name?”

“Guy.”

“What?”

I throw back my head. “I don’t fucking know. I called him Guy. He gave me what I wanted, we went our separate way. Don’t kiss and tell, Chrissy.”

“God,” Chris says. That dimply smile is long gone now. He looks like he wants to punch me. I’m not afraid.

Not afraid.

Still not afraid.

Chris says, “Why did it have to be some asshole?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“The drugs! They weren’t — what did you think you were buying?”

“Felt like heroin.”

“Felt? You didn’t even ask before shooting up?”

“Maybe I have a death wish.” Maybe. Probably not. Life is fun; even strapped to a chair in some stranger’s house.

“Right. Whatever.” Chris shakes his head. Still looks mad. I think I have a punchable face — that’s what Joey in high school said, anyway, then I kissed him behind the bleachers and he shut up real quick. “What you actually took is a serum. Experimental as Hell. And based on your blood work—”

“You took my blood?”

“That’s the least of your problems right now.” Chris leans in closer. “You have no sense of fear.”

“None?”

“Nada.”

“Huh.”

Chris rolls his eyes and maybe I can’t feel fear, but I can feel pissed off. I want to punch him now. The roll reversal sounds about right — now just to get him in the chair and me in the land of the free.

“Huh? That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s interesting,” I say. I try and stretch against the restraints, wondering if with enough incessant effort they might let up a little. “Not like I had much to live for before. I’m a superhero now, cool.”

Chris squints at me. Sizes me up like he’s only just now walked into the room and found a junkie on his couch half-dead on the nod. Not as fun as Ozzy, sadly. “Yeah, you are.”

“Serious?”

“You weren’t meant to be,” Chris says, disgust dripping from his voice. “There’s a few…rouges. Think that experimenting on the unwitting public is the best way to see what happens. They forget that some of you survive and then. Well. We’re stuck with you.”

“You ain’t stuck with me,” I say. I look down at the straps. “Let me go and I’ll fuck right off. Only use my useless powers for good, etcetera, etcetera.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Course it’s not.” A beat. “So do I get some training montage now? Join a group and fight crime? Because, I have to say, that’s not really my bag. My one goal in life is to not be in life. Reality, anyway.”

“No training montage,” Chris says, “but we can’t just let you go, either.”

“So what then?”

It’s starting to get hot in here. Midday? The sun is glaring through the window, at my crotch. I want to be out of here before it hits my face and I can’t see Chris properly. I might be defenseless, yeah — and apparently fearless — but I’m not a complete idiot. Lizard survival part of my brain is still working.

“I don’t really know. You’re the only one in Australia that’s survived.”

“I should be so lucky.”

“Do I get your name yet?”

“It’s Rune.”

“You taking the piss?”

“No, but my parents were.”

That dimpled smile is back. “Rune a.k.a. Fearless. You were born for that.”

“Maybe,” I say. I look up at the ceiling, free from water stains unlike my own. Then sudden realisation dawns on me and my gaze snaps back onto Chris. “So what are your powers, superman?”

“I’m an Empath,” he says.

“Oh, wow,” I say. “And I thought being fearless was lame.”

“There’s no flying or laser eyes or that shit,” Chris says. For an empath, he sure seems to get riled up. “We have people who have enhanced intuition, healing powers, and yeah — we know of a few with superhuman strength. Enhanced human abilities, basically.”

“So did you take a bad trip?”

“I went to the academy, I took the serum, I did the work.”

“There’s a fucking academy?”

“There’s a lot of things going on behind the scenes, but you don’t have to worry about that. Not yet.”

The sun is rising and the straps are starting to dig harder into my wrists. Chris could have at least pulled my hoodie sleeves down to give me a bit of cushioning. Shitty empath.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

“You don’t need enhanced empathy to know that.”

“Maybe.” Chris squats down next to me and undoes one of the ankle cuffs. I could kick out, strike him, but then what? One foot does not an escape make. He undoes the opposite wrist. I still remain still. “Good.”

“So what now?”

“I still have no idea.” 

“Let me go?”

“Soon.”

Chris stands and leaves through the door he came in from.

“Where are you going?!”

I know I should feel fear now — strange house, strange guy — but Chris is right. There’s nothing. Only anger.

Then Chris is back, striding toward me, and--

Pain sears through my neck and I rake at it with my fingers. “What the fuck did you just do?”

“It’s fine,” Chris says, rocking back on his heels. “Just…don’t do anything stupid, okay? We’ll have to stop you.”

“You put a tracker in me?”

“Something like that.” He comes closer again, wary, touches my hand. Is this empathy thing through skin? “I can let you go, but don’t bother trying to fight back — you took on a homeless guy, I have training.”

“I have nothing to lose.”

“Maybe you’ll want to see how these new powers go.”

I let him unstrap me and I don’t fight back. My left hand has deep, anger red rivets coating it. Arsehole.

“I’m leaving,” I say. What else is there?

“Okay.” 

Chris doesn’t stop me. 

Chris doesn’t say goodbye.

World is cold out here despite the sun. My breath is plumes of white, the grass looking like it will shatter under my feet and only one word follows me back to my house:

Fearless.