I got 350 words written and was
boring myself, so I deleted that and decided to post a Flash piece instead of
drivel. Watch this space, though, because I’m seriously thinking of offering a
serialized book (probably starting next week).
This was originally written in response to a photo posted on Authonomy.
Death
or Life
Muscles clenched, constricting sinew
and bone to the point of pain. Aaron
shivered as if cold, even though he wasn’t.
He was coming down. A wave of
sickness swept upwards from his gut and he shivered again, hard enough that the
side of his tennis shoe scraped across the concrete, sharply echoing.
Squinting, he looked up. Concrete walls, their once smooth surfaces
pitted and spalled with age, covered in places by streaks of various colors and
layers of spray paint. It wasn’t even
either imaginative or good. Just lines
and waves and … crap.
Another roll of sickness waved
around. He lowered his head, moaning, “Fuck.”
As though he was ninety instead of
nineteen, he turned onto his knees and climbed to his feet. His jeans and sweatshirt showed spots and
stains of activity he couldn’t remember.
“Ah, fuck.” The whisper, created when he realized the
large wet spot at his crotch wasn’t water, bounced back.
He was in a tunnel, maybe eight-feet
in diameter. To his left, gray deepened
to black. To his right, gray became so
white he couldn’t see anything through it.
He shuffled to the right. The
dark was too heavy. He didn’t think he
could lift it to see what was inside. He
wasn’t sure he wanted to. Scuffling feet
echoed away behind him until he emerged into a concrete swath piled with the
debris of storms and people.
Trash intermixed with vegetation
spotted the channel and lined the ditch.
Where dirt met concrete, a rough trail parted the mess, leading upwards
through brush that lined the high watermark, disappearing toward a line of
trees. He stank. It hadn’t been the tunnel. Some of the stains on his clothes were
vomit. “Shit.” He shuffled over and attempted to climb the
trail. It was hard to lift his legs and
move his arms. Everything felt like it
held the weight of the world. He
struggled on, until, at last, crawling the last few feet on hands and knees, he
made it! Lifting himself upright, he
looked around.
The world looked so … normal. Perhaps five feet ahead of him was a chain link
fence, about four feet tall. Tall weeds
and grasses defined its line while trash and food wrappers papered the diamond-patterned
mesh. Across the demarcation between
civilization and hinterland, a broad asphalt path ran by. Beyond the asphalt was an expanse of grass, dotted
by a few individuals and clusters of people walking, standing, sitting,
talking, laughing or just watching. Farther,
the horizon was a line of trees and parade of sleek, glossy buildings. He didn’t recognize anything.
“Wha …?” He turned in a circle, trying to place
himself. Where am I? A pair of bikes
sailed past leaving chatter and laughter behind. From the other direction, a couple of joggers
padded closer. Their expressions as they
drew near – the determined ‘I’m not seeing that’ – spoke volumes with ‘Loser’
being the kindest of their thoughts.
He watched them pad away, uncomfortable
to be him in that moment, not sure he wouldn’t think the same thing if it
wasn’t him standing there with pee and vomit and God alone knew what else all
over his clothes.
I’ve
gotta get help. It was a fleeting thought,
one that encompassed both now and the
future. He had hit bottom and he knew
it. At the fence, it took an effort but
he managed to crawl over it. Which way do I go?
Vague memories, flashes of a group
he didn’t remember, in a car he didn’t recognize, passing scenery and what
seemed like days of partying. He was
burned out, his brain fried and he didn’t know anything about anything.
One kind lady stopped long enough to
tell him he was in Des Moines, Iowa and pointed him in the direction of the
nearest street. There, someone else,
keeping their distance and showing their pity at the same time they lifted
their hand, had directed the way to the shelter.
Blocks of painful shuffling later, he
arrived at the tired old building that someone or a group had tried to perk up
with new doors and bright paint. It
didn’t hide the hopelessness. “Lipstick
on a pig,” Aaron muttered as he pulled the door open.
Inside, the bearded old-young man,
with the creases of addiction, pain and regret for what was lost etched deep in
his own face, looked at the newcomer. He
saw himself from just a few years before, before the jaws of need had loosened
their grip. Now it was still a battle
some days, but most days he could get by without too much of a fight. One day he hoped it would be easy, but it
wasn’t, yet.
“Welcome.” He said with an encouraging smile as he
stepped from behind the counter. “Looks
like you could use some help.”
Aaron ghosted a smile, “Yeah, you
could say that.”
Six months later, Aaron’s darkest
days were behind him. He had suffered
mightily for weeks while addiction fought against resistance. For days, he had screamed and cried, begged
for just one more hit, but the
shelter workers had seen it all before.
They had all been there before, and knew how it would go. Eventually, Aaron’s pleadings had dropped
off. The frantic, frightened look had
gone through the cunning I can get away
with this to the resigned, strengthening I don’t need that anymore.
Now he worked behind the counter of the shelter, welcoming Life’s
rejects as they came, helping them get started on the path to wholeness.
In another few weeks, his classes
would start at the community college. He
didn’t care that he was taking the most remedial of the remedial classes. He was looking forward to living. Nancy, the health worker who volunteered at
the shelter had smiled last time she had been in. Things were looking brighter than they had in
years and maybe, just maybe, he could crawl all the way out of the pit into
which he had fallen.
* * * * * *
Best~
Philippa
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