Repress Reality

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
My shot at writing a short story. Based on an old friend of mine.

Submitted: November 25, 2011

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Submitted: November 25, 2011

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It feels good to feel good. The excitement of that first hit, the light of my bic, the cool steel of the needle pressing firmly to my vein, only heightens the already overwhelming sense of adrenaline rushing through me. Now, as the morning breaks and my eyes shutter from the blaring light of a new disappointing day, I relive the feeling I have come to know and accept as I slip into sobriety. My body becomes numb. My toes crack as I stand from the floorboards where I passed out the night before. I step over the strangers who, just the night before, were nothing but dark outlined figures stepping in and out of my own conscience. I try to eat but food turns to ash in my mouth, so I give up and escort myself from the room. I proceed down the hall, slowly regaining my memories of the night before. The figures start to become faces, and faces become names. Names I know are lies, faces I know are deceiving. I gather my belongings and quickly retreat out the fire escape, the way i've become oh so used to. The pavement is cool on my bare feet before I slip into my tattered sandals to make my way towards the crosswalk. I turn my back to the wind to light a cigarette when I see her. Her short black hair is cut into a Mohawk, with a steak of blonde running asymmetrically to one side. Her thick framed glasses reflect the sun, casting a gleam of light almost as if it were her own abstract beauty radiating from her core. She is something straight out of a Tim Burton movie. I begin to approach her, but my psyche hinders my courage. Will she see my bruised and scabbed arms? Will the faint yellow of my sclera turn her away? I contemplate a hasty escape but she see's my attempt at a cowards way out, and approaches the light pole I am now using as a make-shift crutch. She engages me in idle conversation, but I'm too distracted. Her smell is an aphrodisiac, her voice sounds like the violas of an orchestra, subtle yet beautiful. She shows me the attention, the affection i've longed for. I reach out to feel her, to know she's real. But as I reach, my fingers grasp the small metal neck of the spoon. I awaken to the light of a new disappointing day, as my eyes adjust to the sunlight. I stare at the dark figures which were once strangers with faces, strangers with names. My toes crack as I kneel on the floorboards, finding my place by the window next to the fire escape. I make myself comfortable as the adrenaline rushes through me. The excitement of that first hit, the light of my bic, the cool steel of the needle nears my vein, and everything becomes numb again. It feels good to feel good.


© Copyright 2017 Kenny Moore. All rights reserved.

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