In the wake of the 2016 American election, several changes occurred in the country. One of the more highly publicized and celebrated of these developments was California’s legalization of marijuana for recreational use. While the objective impact has thus far been quite subtle, a small number of people who live in the San Francisco Bay Area have credited it as being responsible for the rise of a curious urban legend. The details of this story often shift depending who is offering it (or when it is being told), but one element remains unchanged throughout each telling.
They call it “Heaven’s Herb.”
You may have already heard this tale. If you haven’t, it’s simple enough to follow: A grower from Mendocino County had supposedly been trying to breed a new strain of cannabis, and had inadvertently unlocked a dormant piece of genetic code. Accounts vary on how this occurred – some claim that it was a freak mutation, while others offer laughable descriptions of dark magic – but in any case, the end result was allegedly a fragile-yet-fast-growing plant, said to foster a state of blissful euphoria in anyone who consumed it. This effect was claimed to be so profound that people would quite literally forget their troubles, emerging from their intoxication with a new, often completely serene outlook on life.
Of course, no such narrative would be complete without an unlikely twist toward the macabre, and this one is no different. It was eventually revealed – although by whom, nobody ever seems to know – that the sickly nature of this botanical anomaly was such that it required fresh blood for nourishment. Seeing the growing demand, its creator took to slaughtering immigrants and drifters, using their still-warm corpses as wellsprings for the crop. (The question of why this farmer immediately resorted to human sacrifices has not been answered, and tends to draw irritated glares from storytellers.) It took the disappearance of a wealthy college student before law enforcement got involved, after which the plot was exposed, the murderer was jailed, and the remnants of the harvest were burned… although rumors still persist that a few seeds survived, having mysteriously vanished during the investigation.
Very little about the story stands up to any sort of scrutiny, and yet it always seems to arise during those moments when smoke-induced paranoia levels are at their highest. I have personally heard versions in which ground-up bones were used as fertilizer, and one particularly embellished rendition included a decapitated head being employed as a makeshift flowerpot. The reactions people have to each retelling are entirely predictable, too, usually ranging from affected fear and sarcastic eye-rolls to exaggerated amusement that’s meant to disguise genuine unease. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I encountered a response which at all surprised me, and the speaker’s single sentence was the catalyst for what would become an utterly horrifying ordeal:
“Heaven’s Herb isn’t weed.”
I had been spending the evening at my friend Robert’s house, drinking away the tension of a simultaneously stressful and monotonously dull work week. There were five of us seated in the living room that night, those being myself, Robert, his roommate Andre, our mutual friend Jeff, and a young woman named Ann. Ann was something of a stranger to us at the time, having recently met Robert via some dating site or another… and although the utter lack of chemistry between them had stopped any thoughts of romance in their tracks, she had enjoyed the group’s company enough to continue attending our get-togethers. It was she who had offered the statement in question, after the presence and subsequent lighting of a glass pipe had prompted yet another recital of the urban legend.
Jeff, who had been offering the tale, stopped as soon as he was interrupted. “What do you mean?”
“Heaven’s Herb isn’t weed,” Ann said again. “It’s a real thing, but it’s not marijuana.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait… hang on.” Andre rose from his relaxed position on the couch, focusing his eyes on the girl. “What do you mean, ‘it’s a real thing?’ It’s not a real thing.”
“It’s rare,” Ann replied, “but it’s real. My ex-boyfriend’s brother tried it once.”
Muted scoffs and knowing smirks were tossed around the room, with each of us muttering variations of the same thought. Modern myths are often prefaced by a person claiming to have a personal connection to them, albeit via some link which can neither be challenged nor confirmed. Although none of us knew Ann particularly well, she had already developed a reputation for being a witty prankster of sorts, and we all assumed that she was adding her own twist to the tale.
“Alright, let’s hear it, then!” Robert said. “What’s it like? Does it really erase your memory?”
Ann shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s supposed to be like ketamine, I guess. It’s a disassociative high.” The blank looks on our faces must have said more than our words, because she sighed and continued. “Okay, have you guys ever tried salvia?”
“I have.” Jeff held up his hand, looking rather like an overgrown elementary school student. “It was alright. I kind of lost track of… everything.” He shrugged and grinned, prompting barely stifled giggles from the rest of us.
“Yeah, well, it’s supposed to be like that. Almost… almost an out-of-body experience, except that your body is the whole world.” Several seconds passed in silence as Ann seemed to consider her next thought. “I could probably get us some, if you wanted.”
“What?” asked Andre. “Salvia? Ketamine?”
“Heaven’s Herb.”
“Sure, sure,” Robert replied. “We’ll all meet up in El Dorado and smoke it in the Fountain of Youth.”
Jeff held up his hand again. “Uh, the Fountain of Youth was supposed to be in Florida.”
“Bimini,” corrected Andre. “Florida has too many old people.”
Laughter filled the air, and when it finally died down, Ann spoke again. “Really, though,” she said, “I still have his number. If you want to try Heaven’s Herb, just give me a few days.”
That was the point when we started to consider the possibility that Ann wasn’t joking. For me, at least, the prospect of the plant being real was simultaneously frightening and alluring. The various chemicals addling my mind may have been partially responsible, and the young woman’s beauty (which was quite profound) almost certainly played a role in this perspective, but the more I thought about it, the more I caught myself hoping that the offer was a legitimate one. I’ve never been one to experiment with too many substances, but the chance to try something with such a fantastic reputation was oddly enticing.
It turned out that I wasn’t alone in my opinion, either: One by one, my friends all voiced their interest, with Andre offering the caveat that he was still skeptical. Ann promised to let us know when she had acquired some of the mysterious herb, and the conversation turned to different topics shortly thereafter. Several days would pass before I thought about any of that again, and when I was finally reminded of it, a new detail came to light: Robert told me (via text message) that Ann had made good on her word, and had secured a source of Heaven’s Herb. If we wanted to try some, however, we would have to do so in the presence of the person who cultivated it, as the preparation was reportedly too complex and the window for use too brief for an amateur to attempt. I was less than thrilled by the plan, but echoes of the anticipation I’d felt during our previous time together coaxed me into agreeing.
Directions were provided to a place on the outskirts of a town called Kenwood, located about an hour north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Jeff and I drove together – with Robert, Andre, and Ann traveling in a second car – and we arrived just as the sun was starting to set. The location was one of the eeriest I had ever seen: Chest-level wooden poles dotted an overgrown field surrounded by trees, and although my rational side knew that I was looking out over the remnants of a vineyard, I would have easily believed a person who told me that it was a long-abandoned cemetery. A large, circular hut stood at the end of a short dirt road, with the only sign of life being a rusty pickup truck parked near its front door.
“So, this is creepy,” Robert said, stepping out of his vehicle. Ann and Andre followed him, and the five of us peered around. “Are we sure this is the right place?”
As if in answer, the hut’s door opened. A harsh yellow glow shone out from behind a tall silhouette, which began to stalk toward us with slow, measured steps. Someone behind me – I didn’t turn to see who – quickly stumbled backward, putting Robert’s car between them and the approaching figure. Eventually, as the light of dusk filled in the contours of his face, the shadow was revealed to be an olive-skinned man with an unkempt beard. I could feel him appraising each of our group as he drew closer, and when finally spoke, it was to the newest member.
“You Ann?” the man asked. “You Erik’s friend?” His voice was colored by an accent that I didn’t immediately recognize, but which I assumed to be Mediterranean in origin.
Ann nodded. “You’re Yannis?”
For a few tense moments, there was no reply. “You said four.”
“Four plus me,” Ann answered. “We have the money.” She reached into her purse and produced a short stack of bills. I’d been told nothing about what I needed to pay, so I assumed that I would be expected to reimburse the young woman later. In truth, the thought was a welcome return to normalcy, as I had been growing more uncomfortable with the situation by the second.
The man – Yannis – took another step forward, practically snatching the cash from Ann. He counted through it with practiced motions, then visibly relaxed.
“Okay. Come inside.”
Without waiting for any of us to respond, our host turned and strutted back toward his dwelling, pausing at the door to allow my friends and me to enter before him. The interior was strangely decorated, but not unwelcoming: A half-dozen enormous cushions formed a ring around a low table at the center of the single room, the walls of which were lined by plastic-covered planters. Each box had a bright lamp shining into it – the source of the light that I’d seen – and narrow, spindly leaves were just barely visible through the dew that clung to the transparent sheets. The aroma of moist soil reached my nostrils, as did the earthy stench of compost, but I dismissed them as Yannis gestured for us to sit down. He did not join us, instead walking over to a miniature refrigerator near the one section of wall not occupied by his farm.
“You want drinks?” he asked. “No caffeine.” When nobody answered, he just shrugged and returned to the group, then lowered himself onto the one cushion that had been left vacant. “Okay. You know the story?”
Andre let loose a derisive snort. “About watering the marijuana with blood? Yeah, we know it.”
“Not that bullshit,” Yannis replied. His face contorted into an expression of distaste. “This is not marijuana. This is amrita.”
At the mention of the word, Robert seemed to perk up. “What, like, ambrosia? The food of the gods?”
“Yes!” For the first time since our arrival, our host smiled. “Your friend is smart. The gods would feast on ambrosia, and be given eternal life. Just a myth, but with some truth inside. You drink a tea made from amrita, you feel like a new person. All your aches? Gone. Your sadness? Gone.”
“Sounds like Percocet,” muttered Andre. “I didn’t come all this way for some prescription painkillers.”
If Yannis heard the grievance, he ignored it. “Bees would make honey from the flower of amrita. Ambrosia. Ancient Greeks would make mead from the honey. Nectar.”
“Isn’t…” Jeff began, only to cut himself off. Yannis turned to stare at him. “Sorry, I just thought mead was a Norse thing.”
“Mead came before wine in Greece,” the man replied. “Honey can heal and cleanse. Amrita honey can do more. The tea, it does most of all. Once you drink, you are different; you are cured.”
There is scientific evidence for many of the claims made about various narcotics. Marijuana is said to slow the growth of cancer, for instance, and psilocybin (the active chemical in hallucinogenic mushrooms) has shown promise in fighting depression. Even so, the idea that a tincture made from a mystical leaf could somehow offset every ailment struck me as being absurd. I began to suspect that Andre was right; that we were about to imbibe a beverage which mimicked a refined opiate.
Ann shifted on her cushion. “So, how is this going to work? You make the tea, then we all drink it?”
“No.” Yannis’s single, flat syllable called my attention back to him. “I will not drink. You will be asleep. I will wait for you to wake.”
“Hey, no, hang on!” Andre moved as though readying himself to stand. “We’re not going to pass out while you hang around and… whatever!”
“Calm down,” Jeff murmured.
“What, you’re okay with this?” The young man folded his arms. “How do we even know what’s in this stuff? If we’re drinking, he’s drinking.”
Yannis shook his head. “Amrita requires a chaperone.”
“Yeah?” Defiant though he sounded, there was a tremor of fear in Andre’s voice. “Well, maybe I’ll be the chaperone, then, if it’s so damned important.”
Robert shot a glare across at his roommate. “You’re being a dick, dude.”
“No, you know what? Screw this!” Andre pulled himself to his feet. “This is sketchy as hell. Let’s get out of here.” He waited for a moment, but none of us moved to join him. “Fine. Have fun getting robbed. I’m taking a Lyft back.”
Nobody answered, and following a pointed slam of the hut’s door, our number was one fewer.
“Sorry about him,” said Robert. “He didn’t mean…”
Yannis held up a dismissive hand. “Just as well. Resisting amrita can be dangerous. You must be willing to let it take you.” He stood up then, and moved across to one of the nearby planters. A faint scent filled the air as the plastic was pulled aside, its sharpness reminding me of basil… although the leaves that Yannis retrieved bore no resemblance to the herb: They were very long and equally as thin, with slightly serrated edges and a waxy sheen to their surface. Although a verdant green at first glance, hints of violet – subtle enough that they might almost have been a trick of the light – were visible beneath the surface.
The cuttings were placed on the table, and were soon joined by a hot plate, a frying pan, a wooden board, and a scalpel. Four ceramic mugs were added to the collection next, each of them having been filled from an electric kettle. Yannis spoke in low tones as he made his preparations, and we all watched with interest as his hypnotic voice filled the silence.
“The origin of amrita has been lost to time. It appears in many legends. Homer wrote of it as being made into wine with the color of a rose. The Rigveda mentions it as soma.” Yannis placed the frying pan atop the hot plate, the dial of which he turned to the highest setting. “It was grown by the Greeks, Indians, and Egyptians. Never in great quantities. Never more than was needed.” He took the scalpel between his thumb and forefinger, and after laying out the leaves on the wooden board, made a single, perfectly straight incision down the center of each one. The bitter scent grew in strength, making my eyes water and the skin of my face start to tingle. “Seeds traveled with healers and prophets. They were brought to the Israelites. They were brought to the Druids. They arrived in South America with the Olmecs. Every culture has tasted ambrosia. Few remember it, but legends of its power remain.”
As the air started to warp and dance above the frying pan, Yannis slid the leaves onto its surface. Their color began to fade almost immediately, shifting from green to brown. “The gods were said to have ichor in their veins, created and nourished by amrita. Drinking the nectar would change mortals inside. Some achieved enlightenment. Others found a connection with each other. In all cases, the ecstasy was unmatched.” The leaves continued to change in hue, becoming a deep, ruby red. At the same time, beads of crimson sap began to bubble up from the cuts, leading me to wonder if they had been the source of the blood mentioned in the Heaven’s Herb legend. “Now, you will know it.”
With fast, deliberate motions, Yannis plucked the leaves from the frying pan, depositing one into each of the mugs. Tendrils of pink swirled out into the water, grasping like ghostly fingers at something unseen. For a moment, I imagined hearing whispers, beckoning me from almost beyond the reach of my perception.
“Drink.”
Ann wasted no time in downing the concoction, and the rest of us quickly followed suit. The water’s heat threatened to scald my throat as I swallowed, and it masked any flavor that might have been present. A mild wave of nausea came over me, but passed as soon as I noticed it. Beyond that, I felt nothing out of the ordinary.
After a few minutes, Jeff peered down at the remnants of his drink. “Are you getting anything yet?”
“Nope,” answered Robert. He glanced over at Yannis. “How long is it supposed to take?”
The man spread his palms and shrugged. “It will happen when you are ready. Relax.”
Whether as the result of impatience, anticipation, or the fear of what might be ahead, I felt myself growing anxious. I shifted on my cushion, adjusting my legs from one position to another and back again, my motions prompted by nervousness rather than any search for comfort. The others seemed more bored than restless, and I realized that my behavior must have been unnerving. I forced myself to keep still, and I leaned forward to put my mug down before I dropped it.
In that moment, something was different.
Although it was right in front of me – and although I could see my myself reaching out – the table was impossibly far away. Even as I watched, everything around me grew both larger and more distant, though the endless changes seemed like they had always been. Images and echoes came from seconds in the past, then minutes, with each one lengthening and blending into a single enduring eternity. I was a drop of water in an infinite ocean. The clatter of ceramic on wood reached my ears, only to be drowned in a deep, booming pulse that I could feel throughout my entire body. My enormous hands turned in front of me, their presence little more than two shapes on the horizon… and as I struggled to understand, I fell backward into darkness.
The world was gone.
There have been two occasions during my life when I have been unconscious. The first occurred when I was a child, after a bite from a brown recluse spider resulted in my needing surgery. The second came over a decade later, when I got my wisdom teeth removed. During each instance, I was completely unaware… and yet an almost unnoticeable sense of existing still remained. I persisted without being present, somehow knowing that an ascent from the unfathomable depths would let me once again inhabit both my body and my mind. There was a threshold at the surface – one which stimulants had kept me from crossing while I was awake, and which the anesthesia kept me from approaching during my periods of oblivion – on which the smallest of ripples made it known that I was still alive.
That same sensation came to me during the eons while I was under the amrita’s spell.
When I finally woke, something was different yet again.
My next memory is of staring up at the at the hut’s ceiling, and slowly realizing that my eyes had been open for long enough to make them feel dry. I was vaguely aware that I had been seeing, but that the sight simply hadn’t registered. Remembering how to move my limbs took a strange amount of effort, but when I finally pushed myself upright, it was like emerging into a kaleidoscope of simultaneously soothing and inspiring color and sound. Details I had previously taken for granted (or simply overlooked) stood out as being just as obvious and important as the ones that demanded my attention: I could hear the quiet thrum of Yannis’s refrigerator behind the relaxed moan that escaped Ann’s lips as she stretched and smiled; I noticed the flecks of grey in Robert’s blue irises as quickly as I saw that he was watching me; the smell of my own sweat mixed with the heady, earthen scents in the room; the air felt warm and welcoming, and I could even detect the texture of the fabric that made up my clothes.
“You want drinks?” I turned to see our host grinning as though silently laughing at a joke, and I felt my own face mimicking his. “Caffeine is okay now.”
“This is amazing!” Jeff whispered. “I feel… I’m here! I’m here!”
Yannis nodded. “Amrita brings you life. More than that, it brings you eternal life. Now you are awake. You will stay awake until new problems cloud your mind.” He looked from Ann to Robert and then to Jeff. “You are new. You are new. You are new.” At last, his gaze fell on me. “You resisted. Probably still feel good, but not best.” He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe next time. You want drinks?”
This time, we all readily accepted the offer. We were handed cans of off-brand cola, cold to the touch and slick with condensation. The hiss and snap of the tabs being opened was followed by the twin fragrances of sugary syrup and acrid carbonation, and the once-familiar sensation of the bubbles crackling on my tongue was like a wholly new experience. My throat burned slightly as I swallowed – a lingering result, I thought, of the tea’s intense heat – but even that felt oddly enjoyable in a way. I registered the muted pain easily enough, yet regarded it as being more intriguing than uncomfortable. It was only as I tilted my head back to drain the rest of my beverage that an unpleasant cramp formed in my neck, and my wince drew a knowing look of sympathy from Yannis.
“You see? You resisted.”
“What does that mean?” asked Robert. “‘Resisted?'” Rather than sounding like a challenge, the question came out as being guided by genuine interest. Yannis shrugged again. “Some people hold on. They do not let amrita take them all the way. Sometimes they move a little. One man, he tried to go for a run!” A single snort of laughter punctuated the sentence. “Rare, but amrita requires a chaperone.”
The conversation continued awhile longer, covering subjects that would have been incredibly dull on any other evening. It was Jeff who finally thought to ask how long we had been asleep, and he reacted with amused confusion when Yannis checked the time on his smartphone. (We all had mobile devices, of course, but none of us had thought to look at them until then.) Our slumber had lasted just under an hour, despite seeming to have taken an entire lifetime. The total lack of any recollection from that span once again made me think of the urban legend, and of the memory-erasing properties Heaven’s Herb was reputed to possess. Having tried it for myself, I understood the truth behind the tale: Amrita didn’t expunge one’s experiences, nor even lessen their impact; it merely made them feel almost like they had happened to somebody else. It was like being spiritually and emotionally cleaned, allowing one to examine and embrace everything as though for the first time.
Unfortunately, some inner part of my mind had remained untouched by the renewal, and the stiffness in my neck was a reminder of that. I didn’t know how Yannis had been able to tell that I’d fought the effects of the drug, but his statement had every appearance of being correct. While my friends delighted in their carefree contentment, my own felt incomplete. I was the happiest and most relaxed that I could ever remember being, but it still seemed to pale when compared to the pleasure I saw in the faces surrounding me. I resolved to stay and talk with our host, and hopefully understand what had happened. Night had well and truly fallen when we made our way outside. It seemed that Andre had been true to his threat about leaving us, because he was nowhere to be seen. Attempts at calling him – both with voices and cellphones – went unanswered, leading Ann to joke that the young man would be nourishing the next crop of amrita. In truth, we all knew him to be temperamental, and we expected him to refuse contact until his ire had cooled. Robert said his farewells to me, and after confirming that he would be able to safely drive, he ushered the other two into his car and departed for San Francisco.
I had scarcely opened my mouth when Yannis began to speak. “I know what you want to ask. Why did amrita not take you?” I nodded, and the man continued. “Who can say? Maybe fear. Maybe doubt. Maybe too-strong coffee at work.” A smile pulled at the corners of his lips, but did not reach his eyes. “Maybe you just were not ready. You feel good, though?” I nodded again, and Yannis’s smile expanded. “Good! Stay some time before you leave. Look at the stars. Easier to see them here than in the city.” With that, he left, retreating from view and closing the door behind him.
The sky was certainly more brilliant than I could recall seeing before, though I was unsure if the location or the effect of the herb was responsible. I wandered in slow steps, admiring the heavens and drawing my own constellations between the sparkling motes. My aimless path took me into the deserted vineyard, where I paused to inhale the perfume of grass and decaying wood. I might have stayed there longer, but a flicker in my peripheral vision pulled my focus back to the hut, drawing my attention to a crack between two sections of its wall. A narrow beam of light was being cast outward… and growing in that illuminated space, I saw the delicate shapes of slender, shiny leaves.
I had yet to see them whole or unobscured, but the features of amrita were unmistakable.
Given how extensive and developed his indoor farm had been, I doubted if Yannis knew that a sprout had escaped it. Even so, I crept forward as quietly as I could, hardly daring to breathe as I drew closer. A piquant aroma called to me as I brought my knees to the ground, likely more a memory than something I could actually smell. I had only intended to look – to verify what I had found – but my hands moved on their own, plunging into the dirt beneath the plant and pulling it up from the earth.
My pace was hurried as I walked to my car, though I measured each stride to keep from being audible. I kept my prize steady in one palm as I pulled out my keys, then secured myself in the driver’s seat before finally exhaling. Traces of soil fell from between my fingers, and for the first time, I considered how best to transport the fragile treasure. A vacant cup-holder might have worked as a temporary container for the sprig, but I worried that safely extracting it later would be a challenge. Finally, seeing no other option, I removed one shoe and deposited my charge within it, then held it between my legs for the entire drive home.
A journey of about seventy-five minutes brought me back to my apartment in Concord, a town located in the eastern section of the Bay Area. (Although I worked in the city, rent prices have long been so exorbitant that anyone who wished to live without roommates was forced to find housing elsewhere.) I sat for a few minutes after my car’s engine had rattled to a halt, contemplating what I had just done. Other than a star-shaped scrap of gold foil, I had never stolen anything in my life… and even that exception had occurred when I was in kindergarten. The theft of the amrita had come so easily to me, though, like it had been second-nature to simply take what I wanted and damn anything else. Rationally, I knew that I should feel ashamed, yet no guilt haunted my conscience, nor any remorse; I felt only satisfaction at having escaped without being caught. I reasoned that since Yannis had likely been unaware of the plant, I hadn’t really done any wrong, but that explanation felt like a lie.
Still, I slept soundly that night, having gently placed the herb and its soil into an empty soup can.
The following Saturday brought profound meaning to the term “the dawn of a new day.” I awoke with the sunrise, feeling alert and rejuvenated. The tightness in my neck remained, but beyond that trivial detail, every fiber of my being was eager to leap up and explore all that the world had to offer. Although I held no intentions of using it, I checked on the amrita as soon as I left my bedroom, and I was pleased to see that it looked healthier than it had the previous evening. More impressive still was that it seemed to have grown, which I took as a cue to purchase a real flowerpot. There were traces of dirt left in my shoe as I readied myself to leave the house, and I laughed aloud at the sensation of my heel grinding against the grains.
It was as I arrived at the local hardware store that I began to notice how truly far-reaching the change in me had been. Passersby walked and spoke as they always had, yet I saw them more as strangers than as individuals whom I didn’t know. Every person carried lines of fatigue and frustration on their faces; stains of worry and mistrust that dimmed their eyes and weighed invisibly on their backs. I stared with innocent confusion as hostilities were traded beneath a veneer of courtesy, even failing to feel more than curiosity when glares were thrown in my direction. Certain instincts prevailed, though, and an almost-unnoticed urge coaxed me into hurrying through my errand, lest my altered state draw undue attention. I relied almost entirely on the force of habit as I acquired both a small planter and some potting soil, then floundered through an interaction with the cashier before quickly returning to the safety of my apartment.
Once I was again alone, I felt the first pangs of doubt about my newfound tranquility. Pleasant though it was to drift through existence without the burdens of regret or apprehension, my happiness was undermined by the idea that I had been separated from the rest of humanity. An impulse to dismiss my discomfort pushed on my mind as I transferred the amrita to its new container, but that apathy stayed just out of reach. Worse still, I could think of only three other entities who might sympathize with my plight, and contact from two of them had been uncharacteristically lacking since we had parted ways. In the past, Jeff had always made a point of confirming by text message that his traveling friends had arrived at their destinations, and Robert was notorious for posting amusing images and news articles to his various social media accounts… yet both of them had been silent.
This muted anxiety grew as I dialed each of their telephone numbers, and was amplified again when neither call was answered. I tried to think of other avenues I might attempt, but keeping hold of that motivating fear became a maddening battle between concern for their safety and a seductive compulsion to simply sit back and appreciate something beautiful. It came as a mild shock when I realized that I could also reach out to Andre, whom I had somehow forgotten until then. His place as Robert’s roommate afforded him abilities that I couldn’t match from afar, and his own wellbeing – while strangely less important to me – was still in question.
The line did not even ring before I heard the young man’s voicemail message.
Panic set in at last, cutting through my languor and pumping adrenaline through my veins. I seized the emotion, afraid that it wouldn’t last, and forced myself to follow it. The next minute found me once again in my car, bound for the highway that would take me over the Bay Bridge. Traffic was light, but I nonetheless worried that my angst would abate before I could reach Robert’s house. I gripped the steering wheel as though it was the only thing keeping me from drifting off into insanity, and I breathed in fast, hissing bursts through my clenched teeth. The steady hum of the road threatened to ease my nervousness, leading me to fight the auditory incursion with the same weapon I had used in the past.
The mistake proved to be a fatal one. Where habitual behavior had been my lifeline before, this time it was my undoing: A careless gesture called the vehicle’s stereo to life, and the sudden swell of music brought literal tears of joy to my eyes. My urgency vanished, blown away by the sense of rapturous glee that replaced it. The song was familiar; one to which I could have easily hummed along, and yet it carried me to a height that no melody had ever approached. Shades of green and yellow radiated from passing hillsides, seeming to mix with the notes in a perfect symphony of sensory extravagance. I was nearly whole again, nearly free from the torment I had allowed to take me. All that remained was a quiet longing to be near those who could understand my delight.
I drove onward.
There was no answer when I knocked on Robert’s door, but I soon discovered that it wasn’t locked. After stepping inside and removing my shoes, I made my way to the living room. All three of my companions were there, looking as rested and revitalized as I felt. Ann and Robert were seated on the couch, while Jeff reclined in a cushioned chair.
“Hey, it’s great to see you!” said Jeff. “I feel amazing!”
Ann’s smile lit up the room as she offered her agreement. “Me, too! Everything is so real!”
“Have you eaten anything yet?” asked Robert. I realized that I hadn’t. “Oh, man! You won’t believe it. There are actually flavors to stuff!”
“I like the smells,” Ann purred. “They’re all so different. They’re all unique.” Jeff inhaled deeply, having apparently been encouraged by the young woman’s words, and I felt myself emulating him. The scents of chocolate and floral air-freshener flitted beneath a light layer of dust, their combined bouquet sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I sank down onto the couch next to Ann, close enough that I could feel both the warmth of her body and the fine hairs on her arm. Though I can’t recall how it happened, I became aware that my lips were touching hers. She laughed as she kissed me, filling my mouth with hot air that tasted like peaches. Our tongues touched against each other while the conversation went on around us, with Jeff and Robert continuing in their descriptions of all that they had experienced.
It should have felt like a homecoming, but it was lacking. The idea that I was merely pretending mocked me from an unseen corner of my psyche, keeping me from ascending to the apex that I knew was possible. Try though I did to ignore that unwelcome restraint, it infected me, and my arousal declined until it was entirely supplanted by a much more mundane pressure in my bladder. I climbed to my feet and made my way to the restroom, where – after relieving myself – I stood and stared into the mirror. No thrill of elation came with the sight, nor any transcendent vision; it was only my reflection, marked by the same lines and creases that I had seen on the faces of strangers.
Frustration plagued me, and self-loathing, and they were joined by jealousy when I returned to the living room: Ann and Robert were locked in passionate embrace, their mouths and their hips thrusting together while Jeff looked on with an expression of approval. I had been gone no longer than a handful of minutes, and yet I had been so easily forgotten. Rage and anguish flashed through me, almost more quickly than I could process, and I was ultimately left with nothing but the same emptiness that had kept me from the bond I had sought. I had been abandoned.
The sentiment started to fade almost as soon as I recognized it, but its passing left me in control again. I fled from the scene, ran past the exit, and pounded on the closed door to Andre’s room. Though my senses were still the sharpest they had been, I could hear no response; not even a rustle of movement. A crack in the paint begged me to notice it, but I shoved the distraction from my mind. The knob refused to turn in my grasp. My shouts went unanswered. Laughter reached me from elsewhere in the house, and I wondered what merriment I was missing. I kicked at the door once, and again, and again… and the wraithlike cobwebs clinging to a nearby window swayed in a slow and calming pageant, lulling me back into stillness.
Ann had removed most of her clothing by the time that I rejoined the gathering. I could count the freckles that dotted the young woman’s chest. The entanglement between her and Robert had halted, but vespers of resentment still incensed me. I asked myself – not for the first time, I realized, but perhaps for the first time with these words – what absence within me was responsible for my segregation. I felt the same revelry, and I was conscious of all that they were, and yet an errant piece had never fallen into place. I was no more connected here than I had been to the people on the street, and this state of half-being had cast me as an interloper amidst everyone I might encounter.
I do not fully recall driving home. Sensations overwhelmed me, and I indulged myself in them, all the while hoping that some epiphany might make me complete. It never came, and as I neared my front door, I could think only of Yannis’s casual comment: “You resisted. Probably still feel good, but not best. Maybe next time.” Those words continued to resonate as the day passed and the sun set, and by nightfall, I had come to the one conclusion I had been avoiding.
Only one solution was available to me, and it was nestled in the pot I had purchased that morning.
Deciding to use the amrita on my own was more difficult than I had imagined it would be. The preparations would be easy enough to mimic, but the warning that its consumption required a chaperone gave me pause. It was only after I had sat for a time in the darkness, staring directly at the plant, that I began to feel more confident. There were whispers speaking to me – perhaps just the blood rushing in my ears, but maybe the sound of the herb growing – that offered the encouragement I needed. I set my kettle to boiling, then selected a leaf that looked to be about the same size and shape as those with which my friends and I had been presented. The sharp aroma filled my apartment as I sliced the cutting down its middle, and I watched with the beginnings of awe as its color shifted from green to red on my skillet. When the ruby beads seeped up to the surface, I pulled the leaf from the heat and deposited it into a waiting mug. The tendrils of pink explored the steaming water, and after steeling myself for the burn that I knew was coming, I downed the tincture in a single swallow.
My bed was not as soft as Yannis’s cushions, but it was enough.
The world stretched out in front of me.
I surrendered to the darkness.
To be continued...
Submitted May 14, 2017 at 10:39PM by PeterOShamseign http://ift.tt/2pLh9zd nosleep
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