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Bluelight Crew
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Heroin/K-pins/Lyrica/Speed/GHB - Semi-Exp - "This Should've Put Me 6 Feet Under"
At the time of this incident, I had quite the tolerance to both Clonazepam and Lyrica.
I haven't reread the thing, and I haven't spell-checked it.
I hope it's not all that torned and frayed.
Enjoy.
(PS. Any crimes commited in this report should be considered... fiction.)
It was a friday. Maybe it was a thursday; these memories are blurry.
I recall them in a haze, like something surreal, something Kafkaesque.
I was on sick leave. Not really sick in the true sense of the word, more lost and confused than anything.
My doctor gave me a total of five weeks off.
He thought it was anxiety and neuropathic pain, and while some of it was, most of it wasn't;
I did suffer from neuropathic pain, in my left big toe, and severe anxiety.
The anxiety however, was mostly a result of too much drugs in a short span of time.?
This probably goes without saying, but I didn't tell him this.
He had me on 150mg Lyrica four times a day.
What he didn't know was that I wasn't taking it every day.
Instead, I took it once a week, maybe twice, in high doses to get messed up and stumble around mumbling to myself in my small one room apartment.
Thursday around 12, mid-day; let's settle at that.
It was me and my friend Clonazepam taking a stroll through the city.
I was coming up on 600mg of Lyrica and I really wanted to find some oxycodone.
Some morphine, or maybe codeine.
Push comes to shove, some buprenorphine; that would always provide me with a great energetic high, full of euphoria.
Heroin is easy to find here, but that's never been my cup of tea.
I had done heroin a few times before, intranasal, and it didn't impress me that much.
I was also planning on selling some Lyrica. The Lyrica pills are, except for Oxycodone, the most expensive pills you can buy off the street here.
As I have them on script and pay nearly nothing, there's quite alot of money to be made.
The previous night, as I was wandering around aimlessly, I found this guy half-passed out on the subway stairs. It was probably around 2, 2:30.
So, I wake this guy up, slap him back to life. He looked like Sid Vicious with blond hair and beggy jeans.
He looks at me crosseyed as I ask him how he's doing. He smells rancid and his fingernails are yellow.
He can barely walk, and a fresh trackmark in his arm is leaking blood.
I get him on his feet, and take him to the nearest McDonalds. I get him some water and a cheeseburger.
Some rude asshole tries to steal his bag while we sit there, probably thinking I'm as fucked as Sid.
I tell that cunt to back off before I slice him open, and I flash a stiletto.
I'm by no means a violent person, really, but I've learned when you need to go apex and when you can relax. If you met me, you'd probably call me a pushover sissy.
After about three cigarettes and 30 minutes, a jug of water and half of the cheeseburger, Sid can speak, though with a heavy slur. He thanks me, and I tell him no problem.
One day I might be passing out on the stairs, and I can only pray someone will help me then.
We part ways, and I thought I'd never see Blond Sid again.
And so, on this thursday afternoon, I was walking down Brugata, which in Oslo is like a tiny Amsterdam, but with pills and powder. As long as you don't make a fuzz about it, the cops couldn't care less if you're slinging H or buying it.
I see this blonde guy with pink Ray-Ban knockoffs coming at me. It's Blonde Sid.
He gives me a hug, and thanks me again.
I don't really like people, in general, but this kind of openess always makes me soft.
He asks me what I'm doing. I tell him I'm looking for some opiates. Maybe some good speed.
Blonde Sid, sweaty and high as a kite, but functioning this time, he tells me that his mom has a new batch of speed at home, supposedly really good. The sun is blaring down at us, looking like rancid butter on the blue sky, when Blonde Sid asks me if I want to join him. Having nothing better to do, I say yes. I offer him a few Lyrica, which he gladly accepts.
We smoke cigarettes and shoot the shit as we walk towards his moms. It's a thirty minute walk, and not a single second of that time can either of us shut up. Blonde Sid is like a friend I've always had; it's easy talking to him, and he seems to feel the same way.
We arrive at his moms, a big old concrete block, smeared with graffiti and dirt.
His mom doesn't open the door.
"That cunt always locks herself up for a few days whenever she gets a new package," Blonde Sid tells me.
I'm sweating now. From the sun. From the Lyrica kicking in. From not having any opioids in my system.
At this point I had been on oxy or morphine for about two weeks; this was my first day without.
"My friends live up here," Blonde Sid tells me and points a filthy finger towards another concrete block behind a church. "You wanna join me going there?"
A strange sensation moves throughout my body, and I guess some would call it "gut-feeling".
Cause at that moment, something inside me screamed for me to bolt.
This is as good is this alliance is gonna get.
However, I've gotta Ph.D in fucking myself over. A master of self-destruction.
I ask if they have any opiates.
"I knew you were dopesick," Blonde Sid proudly exclaims, "and yes, they've got the medicine to fix you right up."
We move along towards the next highrises, the sun a goddamn curse upon the sky.
I'm wearing a black trenchcoat, a black hoodie with the hood pulled up, jeans torn at the knees and my shoulder-length hair is greasy and sticky in the early spring sun.
I got white Kurt Cobain-sunglasses that keep sliding down my sweaty nose.
Sid's got his pink shades, his baggy jeans full of tiny holes from burning cigarettes, and stains that might be crusted semen or dried powder. He sports a black hoodie that's washed out to a shade of purple-brown - we look like true grit junkies, but next to Blonde Sid, I feel au faux.
I feel like a poser, though, who'd wanna pose as a junkie?
We move up three flights of stairs and arrive at a door full of stickers.
All kinds of stickers; band-stickers, political-stickers, satirical-stickers, some skateboard-stickers and in the middle, a yellow warning triangle reading;
"Toxic Chemicals Passed this Point, Enter at Your Own Risk".
I remember thinking, shit, this is not subtle at all, and also thinking, shit, the Lyrica is kicking in, HARD.
Blonde Sid knocks on the door, his greasy palm pounding at the door as if his life depends on it.
A young dude, with black mascara under his eyes, opens up.
A big fucking rottweiler comes out to greet us.
I get down on bended knee and look the hound of Hades into his brown eyes. He looks kind.
He steps closer and I pet him on his head, before introducing myself to Blonde Sids friend.
His name is irrelevant, but we'll call him Stardust.
We step inside, and the entire hallway is full of tags and graffiti.
Stardust hands me a pen and tells me to leave my mark, which I do.
I used to tag in high school, but tagging without the prospect of getting caught it didn't fill me with adrenaline or make my dick swell.
We step into the living room, and I've never seen so many televisions, laptops or speakers in the room before.
On the table at the center of the room, I see bags upon bags of white powder with a slight yellow hue - and aluminum foil, burnt aluminum foil.
I sit down in one of the sofas; both are a nauseating green full of cigarettholes and stains.
Blonde Sid tells Stardust that I'm the guy who helped him the other night.
Stardust looks at me and then shakes my hand again.
We talk for a while when Blonde Sid goes to the bathroom to take a shit or puke or just pass out for a while.
Turns out Stardust is, like Blonde Sid, a great guy. We talk easily and I'm now quite high, on something like 4 mg of clonazepam and the 600mg of Lyrica, that's really kicking.
I offer Stardust some Lyrica, but he doesn't know what it is. I tell him, and I say it greatly boosts opiates too. He takes 450mg and swivels it down with some orangejuice.
Blonde Sid comes out and says he's gonna go over to his moms again.
He asks me if I want to stay, and I look at Stardust, who just nods, no problem.
Stardust picks up one of the baggies with the yellowish powder, and asks me if I want to rail a line.
It's amphetamine, and according to him, it's fucking great amphetamine.
We both do a line, and keep on talking. He tells me he is gay, and lives in the apartment with his boyfriend.
I ask him about all the electronics, and he tells me about an intricate scam with creditcards.
And the amphetamine was fucking great.
The conversation flows between subjects, involving everything from music to veneral diseases and circumcision. I tell him I've gone under the knife once when I was 15, because my foreskin was tighter than a Mother Theresas asshole.
He asks me if he can see it, and by this time, I'm coherent yet so fucked, I don't even care.
I whip my dick out. He inspects it, and says, nice dick man, to which I reply, why thank you, and we continue talking about music and diferent ways to masturbate.
Turns out he isn't wearing mascara. It's burnt heroin from the aluminum foil.
He produces another baggie from underneath the table and ask me if I'd like a hit.
I tell him I've never smoked H before, just snorted it.
In retrospect, I was way to fucked up to do heroin.
But as I was fucked up enough to show my dick to a gay-dude I had known for less than two hours, one could argue I wasn't really in a position to think rationally.
Conventional morals and logical decision-making went out the door a few hours ago, so to speak.
He guides me as he puts the lighter under the foil. I had no expectations, after my few binges snorting H.
He tells me when to inhale, and I do. Massive breath.
"Hold it in, hold it in...."
Exhale.
Once I smoked clonazepam, and it hit me like a hammer, and at that point I thought, this must be what smoking H is like.
Boy, was I wrong.
Before I knew it, he held the lighter underneath again and told me to inhale.
"Hold it in, hold it in...."
Exhale.
And then, like a fucking freight train through a goddamned pigeon, it hit me.
The euphoria was ridicoulus. I was just smiling, with my eyes closed. I was smiling and laughing as the I kept feelin higher and higher.
We continued doing lines of amphetamine and occassionally smoking H for a few hours.
Blonde Sid was gone, but I didn't care, nor did I really think about it.
The dog lay his head in my lap, and Stardust said that he'd never done that do anyone but him before.
I stroked my hand against his big, bony, beautiful head, and it felt as if I was God, caressing one of my children.
The twist of a key. Someone comes home. Stardusts boyfriend.
He's a mean looking son of a bitch. His eyes had this shimmer of something terrible, something violent that lived beneath the surface of those green eyes speckled with yellow dots.
We'll call him Bucth. Bucth greets me with suscpicion, squeezing my hand as if it was a contest.
I don't know if he thought I was trying to fuck his man.
Stardust tells Butch that 'I'm the guy'.
Blonde Sid had been mighty impressed with my chivalry from the night before.
This softens Butch a bit. He sits down and takes a hit of H, rails a line of speed and pops a clonazepam.
I offer him, like all the other, some Lyrica; he knows what it is and he's stoked as fuck to get some.
They're quite rare on the streets here.
Blonde Sid returns. It's now well after midnight, and I've been there almost 12 hours already.
He's got about 40 or 50 0.250g balloons of speed and Butch, Blonde and Stardust squeeze the balloons.
I really want some hasch and I tell the guys I should get going, knowing that I have hasch at home.
To my surprise, Bucth asks me why, and I say I need some hasch. To my surprise, he's got some.
He doesn't smoke it himself, but his got this goey, stinky chunk and lets me roll a monster.
I make a backroll, and burn the excess paper away. This greatly impresses Butch and Stardust.
Blonde Sid is puking in the bathroom. Nobody else is smoking but me, and I savor it.
It makes me nod out a bit between drags, with images that become more vivid the longer I let myself slip.
Blonde Sid comes back and wakes me from my colorful slumber. We do more amphetamine.
They call themselves the Gay-Mafia, while doing their scams.
I laugh at this and go out in their hallway to make some tags with dicks spelling out Gay Mafia.
This amuses them as much as it does me.
We talk, and talk, and then talk some more. As Butch gets to know me, and that I pound pussy and don't suck dick, he let's his guard down. I snort so many lines of speed, at some point my nose starts bleeding.
I tilt my head back and let it drip into my mouth, down my throat.?
I play with my knife, and I get the sense that these guys thinks I'm sort of crazy.
Their curtains are heavy and black. I pull them away and watch as the sun comes up.
It uncovers the mayhem and the all the ugly shit you can hide from yourself in the cloak of night, becomes visible. I let the curtain cover up the windows again and return to the couch.
Bucth asks who's hungry, and orders a pizza. We take turns playing music, and I smoke some more hasch.
We do some more speed, some more H, more Lyrica, more clonazepam - more everything.
They have this discoball, and the neon haze in the room feels electric with the blue cigarettesmoke.
The day races by faster than I can say "SPEEDBALL MOTHERFUCKER", and as darkness again falls upon us, Bucth tells us we have to grind out some speed to get some more H.
Blonde Sid is passed out, and Stardust can barely stand up straight.
I tell him I'll go with him.
My memory from this partiular night is hazy.
I recall taking the tram with Butch. I have my camo-fannypack with the Totalt J?vla M?rker-patch (a swedish crustpunk-band), filled with balloons of speed and blisters of Lyrica.
I remember selling the speed, some of my Lyrica. I remember Butch getting into an argument with someone, and I remember us copping heroin before leaving.
We get back to the apartment, do more H and amphetamine. More clonazepam and Lyrica, when Bucth says we should go for a 'break-session'. I ask him what the fuck a 'break-session' is, and he tells me.
Breaking into peoples mailboxes, looking for creditcards or anything that can prove valuble.
I've always had a policy against stealing from people, their private shit.
Corporations, fuck'em. I'll hustle them blind if given the opportunity.
However, the drug-salsa in my bloodstream has blown my conscience to bits and pieces.
We hood and mask-up and get out in the dead of night, probably around 4.
When I was young, I was a vandal.
The sound of broken glass was, is, like a symphony to me.
I was never much of a thief. Thieveing for me has always been out of necessity, not pleasure, as vandalism once was. The occassional beer as a minor, some pack of cigarettes, a few cans of tuna when I was older and lived alone and was broke; this was in other words something new.
We get to this upscale neighbourhood. I'm carrying a crowbar inside my trenchcoat.
Bucth has a set of lock-pick tools. He gets us inside a newly built building.
The mailboxes are designed so that one can break'em all up at the same time, which I do.
Bucth is frantically sorting through mail, throwing shit all around him.
I'm feeling stressed out and zen simultanously.
And then.
Fuck.
And then there's a click. A bang. A voice.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?!"
He's in his mid 40's, drunk. I can see the rage boiling and pulsating in that fat worm-vein in his neck.
My vision is quite blurred, like being really stoned and drunk, and I'm having a hard time focusing on the shadow at the end of the hallways who's getting closer and closer.
I remember feeling excited, gripping the crowbar, grinding my teeth, grinning.
As I mentioned, I'm not violent, not really - but I grew up with three sisters, and all of them's got big mouths, writing checks I'd have to cash. I constantly got into fights with guys they pissed off.
It's a part of me that's been buried and forgotten, but at this point I could feel that monster waking to life.
Like a dear old friend coming to visit.
The drunk man is getting closer and I hear Bucth scream, but I can't make out the words.
I saw a flash of images - blood, screams, ecstasy - before Bucth grabs me by my neck and start to run.
If I could meet Bucth now, I'd thank him. I would've stayed in that hallway.
And someone, either the drunk man or me, would have been hurt.
I drop the bar and we run. We run until I'm sweaty all the way through my t-shirt and have stains on my black hoodie; we run until I breathe black tar againt the cobalt blue nightsky.
The moon hangs dead and pale surrounded by dying stars as we get home.
From here on out, things get more surreal. Dreamlike.
The sun sets, again. As if anything else could ever happen. I hadn't slept since Thursday night.
It's sunday afternoon when Blonde Sid offers me a cap of GHB after a line of amphetamine has left my kind of agitated. Pumped-up.
I say yes. I say yes and as I pour it down my throat something happens.
The sleep deprivation and the speed catches up with me.
I get this overwhelming sense of doom. It kicks through all the sedatives, the heroin.
This impending apocalyptic sense that I am about to die, or maybe about to take a life.
I bend down over the dog, for some reason, who is nervous by all these tweaking motherfuckers up in his lair, and he goes for the kill. Those jaws snap shut and nearly takes out my eye.
I snatch my head back, and Stardusts got the dog by his neck before he can strike again.
He only scratched me, right above my nose, but blood is pouring down my face.
I laugh hysterically, steal a couple of balloons of amphetamine and two baggies of heroin as I leave.
Nobody protests, and at first I don't think I realize what I was doing. Then I feel the cold steel in my palm.
I'm holding my knife ready to strike, blade revealed, six inches ready to puncture or slice.
I'm robbing them.
I remember thinking about Omar from "The Wire", a pussy-ass, sketched out whiteboy Omar.
I back out, drop the knife in the stairway and run.
I run out of the building, down the street; through a park and eventually I stop running, as if I've forgotten why I was running.
The GHB made my limbs feel like speghetti boiled for to long.
A tingle in my face, in my chest and my stomach.
Swaying back and forth on the sidewalk, Sunday-afternoon, there's people everywhere, but they all seem to make way for me. Some mumble and point, and I can see shadows running in my peripheri.
I stopped at my work on my way home, and fucking fortunately, my boss wasn't there.
A girl who is a really good friend was working.
She gasped when she saw me, asked me what had happened.
I mumbled something about Cerberus and the gay-mafia, laughing at myself.
She made me a cup of coffee and gave me a croissant.
I sat down next to a pillar in the caf?.
Every other second or so, I'd think the pillar was a person, watching me or talking to me, and I'd growl and scoff at it. I experienced a slight moment of clarity when I called the chair next to me "cunt", and left the caf?.
When I got home, I sat down to write. All around my desk, all around my room, I could see people and shadows moving about as I stared at the screen. Everythime I looked up they were gone.
I heard questions, and as I answered and asked something back, it went quiet.
Eventually, something made me lay down on my bed with the swedish hiphop-group ODZ blasting in my headphones.
I slept for 16 hours straight and woke up to the same song I'd fallen asleep to.
I had the worst headache ever. The first thing I did was puke, right beside the bed.
As I got into the shower, I looked in the mirror;
bloody and with that burnt-foil make-up all over my face and hands.
I told myself, this was just a bad dream.
Then I found the H and the speed in my pockets.
I spent a week in bed, recovering. I've never felt so washed-out, almost transparent.
As I got sober, I woul alternate between wanting to laugh and cry.
After a few days, these feelings got numb, and I think I've convinced myself this is only half-real.
More than anything, the feeling it left me with was - kafkaesque.
Tagged by Xorkoth
substancecode_heroin
substancecode_opiates
substancecode_klonopin
substancecode_clonazepam
substancecode_pharms
substancecode_benzos
substancecode_gabaergics
substancecode_pregabalin
substancecode_gabapentinoids
substancecode_amphetamine
substancecode_amphetamines
substancecode_stimulants
substancecode_ghb
substancecode_gabaergics
_combo_
explevel_experienced
exptype_positive
exptype_healthissues
exptype_difficult
exptype_addiction
roacode_oral
roacode_nasal
roacode_iv
At the time of this incident, I had quite the tolerance to both Clonazepam and Lyrica.
I haven't reread the thing, and I haven't spell-checked it.
I hope it's not all that torned and frayed.
Enjoy.
(PS. Any crimes commited in this report should be considered... fiction.)
It was a friday. Maybe it was a thursday; these memories are blurry.
I recall them in a haze, like something surreal, something Kafkaesque.
I was on sick leave. Not really sick in the true sense of the word, more lost and confused than anything.
My doctor gave me a total of five weeks off.
He thought it was anxiety and neuropathic pain, and while some of it was, most of it wasn't;
I did suffer from neuropathic pain, in my left big toe, and severe anxiety.
The anxiety however, was mostly a result of too much drugs in a short span of time.?
This probably goes without saying, but I didn't tell him this.
He had me on 150mg Lyrica four times a day.
What he didn't know was that I wasn't taking it every day.
Instead, I took it once a week, maybe twice, in high doses to get messed up and stumble around mumbling to myself in my small one room apartment.
Thursday around 12, mid-day; let's settle at that.
It was me and my friend Clonazepam taking a stroll through the city.
I was coming up on 600mg of Lyrica and I really wanted to find some oxycodone.
Some morphine, or maybe codeine.
Push comes to shove, some buprenorphine; that would always provide me with a great energetic high, full of euphoria.
Heroin is easy to find here, but that's never been my cup of tea.
I had done heroin a few times before, intranasal, and it didn't impress me that much.
I was also planning on selling some Lyrica. The Lyrica pills are, except for Oxycodone, the most expensive pills you can buy off the street here.
As I have them on script and pay nearly nothing, there's quite alot of money to be made.
The previous night, as I was wandering around aimlessly, I found this guy half-passed out on the subway stairs. It was probably around 2, 2:30.
So, I wake this guy up, slap him back to life. He looked like Sid Vicious with blond hair and beggy jeans.
He looks at me crosseyed as I ask him how he's doing. He smells rancid and his fingernails are yellow.
He can barely walk, and a fresh trackmark in his arm is leaking blood.
I get him on his feet, and take him to the nearest McDonalds. I get him some water and a cheeseburger.
Some rude asshole tries to steal his bag while we sit there, probably thinking I'm as fucked as Sid.
I tell that cunt to back off before I slice him open, and I flash a stiletto.
I'm by no means a violent person, really, but I've learned when you need to go apex and when you can relax. If you met me, you'd probably call me a pushover sissy.
After about three cigarettes and 30 minutes, a jug of water and half of the cheeseburger, Sid can speak, though with a heavy slur. He thanks me, and I tell him no problem.
One day I might be passing out on the stairs, and I can only pray someone will help me then.
We part ways, and I thought I'd never see Blond Sid again.
And so, on this thursday afternoon, I was walking down Brugata, which in Oslo is like a tiny Amsterdam, but with pills and powder. As long as you don't make a fuzz about it, the cops couldn't care less if you're slinging H or buying it.
I see this blonde guy with pink Ray-Ban knockoffs coming at me. It's Blonde Sid.
He gives me a hug, and thanks me again.
I don't really like people, in general, but this kind of openess always makes me soft.
He asks me what I'm doing. I tell him I'm looking for some opiates. Maybe some good speed.
Blonde Sid, sweaty and high as a kite, but functioning this time, he tells me that his mom has a new batch of speed at home, supposedly really good. The sun is blaring down at us, looking like rancid butter on the blue sky, when Blonde Sid asks me if I want to join him. Having nothing better to do, I say yes. I offer him a few Lyrica, which he gladly accepts.
We smoke cigarettes and shoot the shit as we walk towards his moms. It's a thirty minute walk, and not a single second of that time can either of us shut up. Blonde Sid is like a friend I've always had; it's easy talking to him, and he seems to feel the same way.
We arrive at his moms, a big old concrete block, smeared with graffiti and dirt.
His mom doesn't open the door.
"That cunt always locks herself up for a few days whenever she gets a new package," Blonde Sid tells me.
I'm sweating now. From the sun. From the Lyrica kicking in. From not having any opioids in my system.
At this point I had been on oxy or morphine for about two weeks; this was my first day without.
"My friends live up here," Blonde Sid tells me and points a filthy finger towards another concrete block behind a church. "You wanna join me going there?"
A strange sensation moves throughout my body, and I guess some would call it "gut-feeling".
Cause at that moment, something inside me screamed for me to bolt.
This is as good is this alliance is gonna get.
However, I've gotta Ph.D in fucking myself over. A master of self-destruction.
I ask if they have any opiates.
"I knew you were dopesick," Blonde Sid proudly exclaims, "and yes, they've got the medicine to fix you right up."
We move along towards the next highrises, the sun a goddamn curse upon the sky.
I'm wearing a black trenchcoat, a black hoodie with the hood pulled up, jeans torn at the knees and my shoulder-length hair is greasy and sticky in the early spring sun.
I got white Kurt Cobain-sunglasses that keep sliding down my sweaty nose.
Sid's got his pink shades, his baggy jeans full of tiny holes from burning cigarettes, and stains that might be crusted semen or dried powder. He sports a black hoodie that's washed out to a shade of purple-brown - we look like true grit junkies, but next to Blonde Sid, I feel au faux.
I feel like a poser, though, who'd wanna pose as a junkie?
We move up three flights of stairs and arrive at a door full of stickers.
All kinds of stickers; band-stickers, political-stickers, satirical-stickers, some skateboard-stickers and in the middle, a yellow warning triangle reading;
"Toxic Chemicals Passed this Point, Enter at Your Own Risk".
I remember thinking, shit, this is not subtle at all, and also thinking, shit, the Lyrica is kicking in, HARD.
Blonde Sid knocks on the door, his greasy palm pounding at the door as if his life depends on it.
A young dude, with black mascara under his eyes, opens up.
A big fucking rottweiler comes out to greet us.
I get down on bended knee and look the hound of Hades into his brown eyes. He looks kind.
He steps closer and I pet him on his head, before introducing myself to Blonde Sids friend.
His name is irrelevant, but we'll call him Stardust.
We step inside, and the entire hallway is full of tags and graffiti.
Stardust hands me a pen and tells me to leave my mark, which I do.
I used to tag in high school, but tagging without the prospect of getting caught it didn't fill me with adrenaline or make my dick swell.
We step into the living room, and I've never seen so many televisions, laptops or speakers in the room before.
On the table at the center of the room, I see bags upon bags of white powder with a slight yellow hue - and aluminum foil, burnt aluminum foil.
I sit down in one of the sofas; both are a nauseating green full of cigarettholes and stains.
Blonde Sid tells Stardust that I'm the guy who helped him the other night.
Stardust looks at me and then shakes my hand again.
We talk for a while when Blonde Sid goes to the bathroom to take a shit or puke or just pass out for a while.
Turns out Stardust is, like Blonde Sid, a great guy. We talk easily and I'm now quite high, on something like 4 mg of clonazepam and the 600mg of Lyrica, that's really kicking.
I offer Stardust some Lyrica, but he doesn't know what it is. I tell him, and I say it greatly boosts opiates too. He takes 450mg and swivels it down with some orangejuice.
Blonde Sid comes out and says he's gonna go over to his moms again.
He asks me if I want to stay, and I look at Stardust, who just nods, no problem.
Stardust picks up one of the baggies with the yellowish powder, and asks me if I want to rail a line.
It's amphetamine, and according to him, it's fucking great amphetamine.
We both do a line, and keep on talking. He tells me he is gay, and lives in the apartment with his boyfriend.
I ask him about all the electronics, and he tells me about an intricate scam with creditcards.
And the amphetamine was fucking great.
The conversation flows between subjects, involving everything from music to veneral diseases and circumcision. I tell him I've gone under the knife once when I was 15, because my foreskin was tighter than a Mother Theresas asshole.
He asks me if he can see it, and by this time, I'm coherent yet so fucked, I don't even care.
I whip my dick out. He inspects it, and says, nice dick man, to which I reply, why thank you, and we continue talking about music and diferent ways to masturbate.
Turns out he isn't wearing mascara. It's burnt heroin from the aluminum foil.
He produces another baggie from underneath the table and ask me if I'd like a hit.
I tell him I've never smoked H before, just snorted it.
In retrospect, I was way to fucked up to do heroin.
But as I was fucked up enough to show my dick to a gay-dude I had known for less than two hours, one could argue I wasn't really in a position to think rationally.
Conventional morals and logical decision-making went out the door a few hours ago, so to speak.
He guides me as he puts the lighter under the foil. I had no expectations, after my few binges snorting H.
He tells me when to inhale, and I do. Massive breath.
"Hold it in, hold it in...."
Exhale.
Once I smoked clonazepam, and it hit me like a hammer, and at that point I thought, this must be what smoking H is like.
Boy, was I wrong.
Before I knew it, he held the lighter underneath again and told me to inhale.
"Hold it in, hold it in...."
Exhale.
And then, like a fucking freight train through a goddamned pigeon, it hit me.
The euphoria was ridicoulus. I was just smiling, with my eyes closed. I was smiling and laughing as the I kept feelin higher and higher.
We continued doing lines of amphetamine and occassionally smoking H for a few hours.
Blonde Sid was gone, but I didn't care, nor did I really think about it.
The dog lay his head in my lap, and Stardust said that he'd never done that do anyone but him before.
I stroked my hand against his big, bony, beautiful head, and it felt as if I was God, caressing one of my children.
The twist of a key. Someone comes home. Stardusts boyfriend.
He's a mean looking son of a bitch. His eyes had this shimmer of something terrible, something violent that lived beneath the surface of those green eyes speckled with yellow dots.
We'll call him Bucth. Bucth greets me with suscpicion, squeezing my hand as if it was a contest.
I don't know if he thought I was trying to fuck his man.
Stardust tells Butch that 'I'm the guy'.
Blonde Sid had been mighty impressed with my chivalry from the night before.
This softens Butch a bit. He sits down and takes a hit of H, rails a line of speed and pops a clonazepam.
I offer him, like all the other, some Lyrica; he knows what it is and he's stoked as fuck to get some.
They're quite rare on the streets here.
Blonde Sid returns. It's now well after midnight, and I've been there almost 12 hours already.
He's got about 40 or 50 0.250g balloons of speed and Butch, Blonde and Stardust squeeze the balloons.
I really want some hasch and I tell the guys I should get going, knowing that I have hasch at home.
To my surprise, Bucth asks me why, and I say I need some hasch. To my surprise, he's got some.
He doesn't smoke it himself, but his got this goey, stinky chunk and lets me roll a monster.
I make a backroll, and burn the excess paper away. This greatly impresses Butch and Stardust.
Blonde Sid is puking in the bathroom. Nobody else is smoking but me, and I savor it.
It makes me nod out a bit between drags, with images that become more vivid the longer I let myself slip.
Blonde Sid comes back and wakes me from my colorful slumber. We do more amphetamine.
They call themselves the Gay-Mafia, while doing their scams.
I laugh at this and go out in their hallway to make some tags with dicks spelling out Gay Mafia.
This amuses them as much as it does me.
We talk, and talk, and then talk some more. As Butch gets to know me, and that I pound pussy and don't suck dick, he let's his guard down. I snort so many lines of speed, at some point my nose starts bleeding.
I tilt my head back and let it drip into my mouth, down my throat.?
I play with my knife, and I get the sense that these guys thinks I'm sort of crazy.
Their curtains are heavy and black. I pull them away and watch as the sun comes up.
It uncovers the mayhem and the all the ugly shit you can hide from yourself in the cloak of night, becomes visible. I let the curtain cover up the windows again and return to the couch.
Bucth asks who's hungry, and orders a pizza. We take turns playing music, and I smoke some more hasch.
We do some more speed, some more H, more Lyrica, more clonazepam - more everything.
They have this discoball, and the neon haze in the room feels electric with the blue cigarettesmoke.
The day races by faster than I can say "SPEEDBALL MOTHERFUCKER", and as darkness again falls upon us, Bucth tells us we have to grind out some speed to get some more H.
Blonde Sid is passed out, and Stardust can barely stand up straight.
I tell him I'll go with him.
My memory from this partiular night is hazy.
I recall taking the tram with Butch. I have my camo-fannypack with the Totalt J?vla M?rker-patch (a swedish crustpunk-band), filled with balloons of speed and blisters of Lyrica.
I remember selling the speed, some of my Lyrica. I remember Butch getting into an argument with someone, and I remember us copping heroin before leaving.
We get back to the apartment, do more H and amphetamine. More clonazepam and Lyrica, when Bucth says we should go for a 'break-session'. I ask him what the fuck a 'break-session' is, and he tells me.
Breaking into peoples mailboxes, looking for creditcards or anything that can prove valuble.
I've always had a policy against stealing from people, their private shit.
Corporations, fuck'em. I'll hustle them blind if given the opportunity.
However, the drug-salsa in my bloodstream has blown my conscience to bits and pieces.
We hood and mask-up and get out in the dead of night, probably around 4.
When I was young, I was a vandal.
The sound of broken glass was, is, like a symphony to me.
I was never much of a thief. Thieveing for me has always been out of necessity, not pleasure, as vandalism once was. The occassional beer as a minor, some pack of cigarettes, a few cans of tuna when I was older and lived alone and was broke; this was in other words something new.
We get to this upscale neighbourhood. I'm carrying a crowbar inside my trenchcoat.
Bucth has a set of lock-pick tools. He gets us inside a newly built building.
The mailboxes are designed so that one can break'em all up at the same time, which I do.
Bucth is frantically sorting through mail, throwing shit all around him.
I'm feeling stressed out and zen simultanously.
And then.
Fuck.
And then there's a click. A bang. A voice.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?!"
He's in his mid 40's, drunk. I can see the rage boiling and pulsating in that fat worm-vein in his neck.
My vision is quite blurred, like being really stoned and drunk, and I'm having a hard time focusing on the shadow at the end of the hallways who's getting closer and closer.
I remember feeling excited, gripping the crowbar, grinding my teeth, grinning.
As I mentioned, I'm not violent, not really - but I grew up with three sisters, and all of them's got big mouths, writing checks I'd have to cash. I constantly got into fights with guys they pissed off.
It's a part of me that's been buried and forgotten, but at this point I could feel that monster waking to life.
Like a dear old friend coming to visit.
The drunk man is getting closer and I hear Bucth scream, but I can't make out the words.
I saw a flash of images - blood, screams, ecstasy - before Bucth grabs me by my neck and start to run.
If I could meet Bucth now, I'd thank him. I would've stayed in that hallway.
And someone, either the drunk man or me, would have been hurt.
I drop the bar and we run. We run until I'm sweaty all the way through my t-shirt and have stains on my black hoodie; we run until I breathe black tar againt the cobalt blue nightsky.
The moon hangs dead and pale surrounded by dying stars as we get home.
From here on out, things get more surreal. Dreamlike.
The sun sets, again. As if anything else could ever happen. I hadn't slept since Thursday night.
It's sunday afternoon when Blonde Sid offers me a cap of GHB after a line of amphetamine has left my kind of agitated. Pumped-up.
I say yes. I say yes and as I pour it down my throat something happens.
The sleep deprivation and the speed catches up with me.
I get this overwhelming sense of doom. It kicks through all the sedatives, the heroin.
This impending apocalyptic sense that I am about to die, or maybe about to take a life.
I bend down over the dog, for some reason, who is nervous by all these tweaking motherfuckers up in his lair, and he goes for the kill. Those jaws snap shut and nearly takes out my eye.
I snatch my head back, and Stardusts got the dog by his neck before he can strike again.
He only scratched me, right above my nose, but blood is pouring down my face.
I laugh hysterically, steal a couple of balloons of amphetamine and two baggies of heroin as I leave.
Nobody protests, and at first I don't think I realize what I was doing. Then I feel the cold steel in my palm.
I'm holding my knife ready to strike, blade revealed, six inches ready to puncture or slice.
I'm robbing them.
I remember thinking about Omar from "The Wire", a pussy-ass, sketched out whiteboy Omar.
I back out, drop the knife in the stairway and run.
I run out of the building, down the street; through a park and eventually I stop running, as if I've forgotten why I was running.
The GHB made my limbs feel like speghetti boiled for to long.
A tingle in my face, in my chest and my stomach.
Swaying back and forth on the sidewalk, Sunday-afternoon, there's people everywhere, but they all seem to make way for me. Some mumble and point, and I can see shadows running in my peripheri.
I stopped at my work on my way home, and fucking fortunately, my boss wasn't there.
A girl who is a really good friend was working.
She gasped when she saw me, asked me what had happened.
I mumbled something about Cerberus and the gay-mafia, laughing at myself.
She made me a cup of coffee and gave me a croissant.
I sat down next to a pillar in the caf?.
Every other second or so, I'd think the pillar was a person, watching me or talking to me, and I'd growl and scoff at it. I experienced a slight moment of clarity when I called the chair next to me "cunt", and left the caf?.
When I got home, I sat down to write. All around my desk, all around my room, I could see people and shadows moving about as I stared at the screen. Everythime I looked up they were gone.
I heard questions, and as I answered and asked something back, it went quiet.
Eventually, something made me lay down on my bed with the swedish hiphop-group ODZ blasting in my headphones.
I slept for 16 hours straight and woke up to the same song I'd fallen asleep to.
I had the worst headache ever. The first thing I did was puke, right beside the bed.
As I got into the shower, I looked in the mirror;
bloody and with that burnt-foil make-up all over my face and hands.
I told myself, this was just a bad dream.
Then I found the H and the speed in my pockets.
I spent a week in bed, recovering. I've never felt so washed-out, almost transparent.
As I got sober, I woul alternate between wanting to laugh and cry.
After a few days, these feelings got numb, and I think I've convinced myself this is only half-real.
More than anything, the feeling it left me with was - kafkaesque.
Tagged by Xorkoth
substancecode_heroin
substancecode_opiates
substancecode_klonopin
substancecode_clonazepam
substancecode_pharms
substancecode_benzos
substancecode_gabaergics
substancecode_pregabalin
substancecode_gabapentinoids
substancecode_amphetamine
substancecode_amphetamines
substancecode_stimulants
substancecode_ghb
substancecode_gabaergics
_combo_
explevel_experienced
exptype_positive
exptype_healthissues
exptype_difficult
exptype_addiction
roacode_oral
roacode_nasal
roacode_iv
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Glad you're okay, that's an intense amount of drugs!
