Wednesday, February 6, 2013


Waiting until Jason is in full bullshit mode, regaling their mates with some tired old story, Rosie slides out of her chair and exits. The music and laughter is subdued by the length of the hallway and her need. The glory of the bathroom is revealed. It matches her mood. Fluorescent light, chipped and stained enamel, mouldy grouting, tied together with lime green woodwork. About time they moved out of this shit hole. 

Rosie’s fingers tremble as she teases the foil into a tube. A pen or even a toothbrush would make it easier but the thought is dismissed by the urgency in her veins. She also knows she should first burn the foil because later, inevitably, when she’s desperate enough to smoke the residue that collects in the tube, she won’t be inhaling the foil’s plastic coating. But again those thoughts are shouldered aside by the sour grapefruit zing in her limbs. She tears another square of aluminium, burns it and flattens it ready to receive some of the dirty brown powder. Her shaky fingers are bolstered by a fear of spillage.

The cheap plastic lighter is found and ground into life. The foil square placed over the flame and the powder, teased expertly into smoke, is quickly inhaled via the loosely rolled tube. Angling the foil away she deftly chases the bead of resin, retrieving the released.

Release. Release from the fear of pain.

The first lungful is always metallic and hot. A noise from down the hallway reminds her of her guests. She lies to herself deciding that another strike of metal on flint, the inhalation, another cough or two, not to mention the acrid smell, is all sure to go unnoticed. Sitting back warmth seeps into her limbs replacing the citrus electricity that existed before. The tide is back in washing away all the detritus, the litter of a messy mind spoiling a place of natural beauty. She’d always been environmentally conscious, so it was natural to want the shoreline free from crap.

Another and it was high tide.


Jason looks up as Rosie wafts back in. She looks like she’s underwater. He notices the contracted pupils, tiny beads of black in red-rimmed white. Eyelids lowered in submission. Her lips are teased up in a Mona Lisa smile. 
She sits and avoids his eye - her gaze slipping over him like he’s Teflon. She rubs her nose, twists her hair and touches her neck before repeating the opiate-induced ritual. Fuck. Could she be more obvious?

Chris Williams

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