I remember the night. It comes back in shards, small slithers are missing, but the big pieces are all still there. I just can’t put them back together. Not without those slithers.
Vomiting. That primal, growl that crawls up your throat and explodes out of your mouth as you wretch. For such a waif of a girl, she sure could make a racket. She was draped over a toilet, which, in itself, was repulsive enough. Her trembling fingers found her mouth again and she forced them down her throat. A half scream erupted from her lips and I turned away, hearing the sound of her success.
That’s the first piece. See, they don’t tell you about the ugly side. The track marks, the dark circles, the vomiting. Those parts are dusted over with their magic. You only see the flashbulb smiles. The teeth so white they could have fifties style twinkles. The long, willowy, perfect bodies.
My Father once told me everything has it’s price. Remember that, the next time you look at one of those glossy pictures.
Shots. Lined up on a sticky bar, their contents glowing like magic potions. You throw them back, tasting nothing as they burn a trail down your throat, settling like hot coals in your stomach.
A girl, Cecilia. She was going to rehab in the morning. The others were weeping over her as if it were her funeral. But, the beautiful people, we have a tendency for over-dramatics. No one cared really. The girl was stunning, a tall, (unnatural) redhead. They shed their tears and kept their grins on the inside. Pretty girls were all competition.
Tablets. Ecstasy was popular: it didn’t make you hungry. I watched their hands grab eagerly for them, swallowing the bright orbs of pure white. I ground mine between my fingers, wondering, in my drunken state, how something so fragile could be so powerful once you let it inside.
They danced harder, their movements blurring as I sank into a blissful, drunken languor. I laughed to myself, feeling like a God. I didn’t need drugs. I didn’t need to wrench back anything that passed my lips. I laughed at the competition.
I was omnipotent. I shone brighter; I dazzled, I astounded, I stunned every person that laid eyes on me.
I was untouchable.
A scream. The nails down a chalkboard kind; piercing enough to wake me from my inebriated slumber. I was hot, almost feverish. My short-term memory was impaired by the poison I’d consumed so willingly. For a moment I stared up at the ceiling and felt a jolt of fear, not recognising my surroundings. Cold was seeping through my clothes. I’d fallen asleep on a tiled floor; brick red tiles like the kind they have in Spanish villas that stay cool despite the outside heat.
But this wasn’t Spain. So why was it so hot? Why were my clothes soaked with sweat?
My heart raced with panic as I clumsily attempted to sit up.
Another scream. I took a breath but it felt like swallowing a swarm of bees and I choked, coughing like a smoker.
A bang. That’s the last piece. No images, just the sound of a blast as my life was blown to smithereens.
I awoke with a pile of pieces in my lap. But, just like my memories, there were shards, slithers, missing. So I couldn’t put it back together the same way.