Damien: a weekMature

I could punch myself right now. The fact that I have and the fact that it didn't really help is irrelevant, really. My original motive for going back inside had been to have a pee and then go straight back outside. I mean this is the first time I've ever seriously tried to give up drugs before, and I'm so, so close, but if anything, it's harder now than it was months ago when I decided I was really going to try this time.

Somehow I've managed to get myself so high I can barely remember what people's names are, let alone what I took to get me this high. The itch in my nose tells me that I've had at least one line of coke, though, I can tell you that much.

After a while, I somehow end up outside, but Kyle is nowhere to be found. Momentary worry is replaced by a fresh wave of free carelessness. So he's pissed at me for being a fuck up. He'll get over it soon enough. I can deal with the disappointment, because fuck, this is worth it. Someone remind me why I'm giving this up, again?


Because one of the effects of cocaine is that you feel like you're in a movie, you don't register inane things such as getting from one place to another, you just stop being in one place and start being in the next, like some smooth transition between shots. Everything about the space of time that you're high for is like this.

So you can imagine my surprise as one minute we're all having an amazing time, and the next, blue flashing lights and cops are all hanging around. Apparently I had a wrap in my pocket. Usually mom would somehow manage to bail me out. But I can't rely on her for this one.  There's no avoiding that horrible, sinking realisation that I can't get out of this one.

I'm put in the back of one of the cop cars and the world slides past me as I try my best not to think about how Kyle's gonna react when he hears about this. Unless he was there and I didn't see him. I haven't seen him since we were outside.

I can't say I like the feeling of having a four year sentence hanging over my head.


The next morning, feeling all shitty and like someone whacked me over the back of the head with a sledgehammer, I'm woken up in my little cell by some stern police woman who clearly doesn't think much of me. She puts the handcuffs on me and leads me through to a phone and tells me to make my phone call. Most people would call a lawyer or something, and maybe I should've tried calling my mom, but no, I try calling Kyle's cell. He doesn't pick up and I start to panic, unsure whether he's not answering because he's pissed off at me or just busy being asleep.

After my failed phone call, the police woman starts telling me about my rights and what to expect in court, blah, blah, blah. I don't listen to half of it, too busy worrying about Kyle. I mean, the guy deserves better than this. It's already pretty much set in stone - I'm getting four years in jail and that's that - I can't expect him to wait for me that long.

At the thought of Kyle not waiting for me and going out with someone else, my fog of depression only thickens and I can't think of anything else. The court hearing genuinely feels about two seconds long. I could've gotten off with one year if I had any money. But I don't, so, as I expected, four years in jail is just around the corner.


I call Kyle every day until he picks up. I don't mean to annoy him or anything; I just want him to know how sorry I am. It takes maybe a week for him to finally pick up. 


The End

80 comments about this exercise Feed