author's note: for chapters 1-2, please see my post from yesterday. I debated on keeping chapter 3, but it provides background which lends support to chapter 4, so bear with me.
Chapter 3
Walking through the doors of my new school, I am as nervous as a man on trial. It is a private school, and one of my choosing, but the student body numbers perhaps one-hundred, and I will immediately be noticed as the new kid. This is my one shot, however, and I refuse to blow it. A condition of my release from the hospital was that I no longer be kept out of school. I had a bargaining chip, and I took it. Rocky Mountain Academy has a reputation for sending kids to good colleges, and flowing heavy with drug supplies. So here I am, entering the first day of tenth grade for the second time.
As I walk into my chemistry class, I am tense. I feel it in my muscles, like a deer sensing a pack of predators. Already I feel out of place in my cargo shorts and Hollister tee. Why did I wear this? First period is chemistry. The people in this room have a sense of camaraderie. They have known each other for nearly their entire lives. I am acutely aware of my status as an interloper. But they have not made up their minds yet. I am in a state of quantum superpositioning, both someone they like and dislike. One wrong move, and they will ostracize me.
A single boy stands out from the herd. His shaggy hair, baggy jeans, and Bob Marley hoodie suggest that he views himself as an outsider, too, and wraps his identity up in his drug use. He looks at me, and noticing my nervousness, beckons toward an open seat next to him. Smiling, I sit down clumsily and introduce myself. He tells me his name.
“Welcome, man. I’m Jacob.” he says warmly. He has a comforting presence, and seems wiser than his age might suggest. Already, I hope to become friends with him. But now the teacher has begun the lecture, and that will have to wait.
It is P.E. sometime during the first week. Jacob mentions something about weed to me while we sit on the bench. He is fishing for hints that I might share his habits. Enthusiastically, I tell him, “Yeah, dude. I totally smoke.” Ugh, I sound like a complete tool. He takes no notice. Now he is the one talking to me, and not me to him.
“Where can I score around here?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. Broaching the subject of opiates would be premature right now.
“Ask Daniel.” he replies, pointing across the gym to a tall, skinny senior with long blonde hair and a baja. “He’ll hook it up.”
Hooking it up means paying twenty dollars for what I can only estimate to be two grams of mid-grade bud. I buy it gratefully, trying to hide my desperation to get high on something. Should I ask this kid if he knows where to find roxies? No, too risky, I tell myself. He might stop selling to me altogether.
“Come over to my house after school, man. We’ll smoke up.” Jacob says during our free period.
“For sure!” I try unsuccessfully to mask my enthusiasm.
Jacob’s basement is a shrine dedicated to the worship of all things marijuana. Colorful posters adorn the walls, and paraphernalia litters the desk and coffee table. I sit down on the couch. Whipping out a two foot bong, Jacob loads a bowl from some of the finest nugs I have seen. Before long, I am higher than I have ever been in my short pot smoking career.
“Here’s the thing about our school, man. Everyone fucking sucks.” declares Jacob as he blows out a thick cloud. “You might not see it yet, but you will... in time. They’re complete fucking pussies. They don’t get it.”
“They seem nice enough to me.”
“You’ve only been here one day. Wait until they find out you smoke pot.”
“Well, mainly I’m a pillhead.” I remark sardonically.
“Pills? These kids will eat you alive when they figure that out!”
My phone rings, cutting through the now hotboxed room. I answer reluctantly.
“It’s my mom, dude. She wants me home now.”
As I walk home, I become aware of just how high I am. Paranoia creeps up into my consciousness, strangling my thoughts. Approaching my house, I see my mom standing in the doorway. She is generally upset with me, but today she looks downright livid. Fuck. She must suspect something. Try to play it off. She refuses to give me the chance.
“Let me smell your breath.” she insists. I have no choice but to take the risk.
Before I can come up with an excuse, I find myself the recipient of a virulent tirade. Worthless, loser, mistake: these are merely a few pejoratives I find directed at me. Who cares? I deal with this talk sober all the time. Now she wants to test me for marijuana on a weekly basis. I tell her to go ahead. Inside I know God wants me to feel his embrace once more. Opiates were always the way to go.
She calls Jacob’s parents, and he is mad at me for a few days before we return to business as usual. He directs me to a local kid who sells 30mg roxies, and I pick a few up. The familiar feeling comes back to greet me like an old friend as I sink into my first nod in several months. Like coming home, coming home, home, home... Chapter 4
A benzo high is a treacherous opponent, sneaky in the way it coaxes the mind into letting down its guard. Never trust a benzo. It takes victims by surprise, altering memories and warping reality to fit its needs. Other drugs are straightforward in their effects. You are acutely aware that you are nodding out, stoned, or tripping. Not so with the benzodiazepine. The hallmark of any decently strong benzo is that the more one takes, the less one is aware that they are under the influence of a mind-altering substance.
“Have you ever done benzos dude?” Jacob asks me. We sit on the curb in the neighborhood smoke spot. Denver is full of such crevices, always populated by at least a few teens trying to get their buzz on. We pay no attention to the law these days. Legalization is on the horizon, probably in the next few years. We can sense it in our endocannabinoid system.
“What’s a benzo?”
“It’s kinda like being drunk without the goggles. Nice mellow high.”
“What do you have?”
“K-pins.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of those.” I haven’t.
“I’m selling them for two bucks a pop.” Jacob has been paying more attention to pharmaceuticals since I introduced him to opiates.
“Damn bro, I’ll take ten.” My experience buying oxys has jaded my notions of what a pill should cost.
Jacob hands them over, tiny and orange. I immediately take 2. My house is five minutes away, but by the time I walk in the door, I am feeling pleasantly calm. The high is soothing, but nothing compared to the all-encompassing embrace of a nod. For now, it seems fine. Time will tell whether I shell out money for more of these. I sit in my bedroom, locked to the bed by this chemical force of nature, mind vacant. Soon enough, though, the high wears off, and I am left feeling tired and unimpressed. Fuck it, I think. These aren’t shit. I could do these anytime. It is a dangerous conclusion, but sooner or later, some lessons must be learned the hard way. Sticking the devious little things in my backpack, I crawl into bed and pass out gently.
“I think I’m gonna do some during this period.” I say as the bell rings and we pack away our notebooks.
“I’ll probably do one with you, man.” Jacob responds nonchalantly. We head into the bathroom furtively, and the deed is done. True to his word, Jacob eats a single pill. I eat four. We head to our next class, glad to have a way to ignore it.
Nearly twenty minutes later, I begin to wonder why it is that I feel nothing. Stumbling out of my seat, I mumble some excuse to my teacher and wobble toward the door. Why is it not working yet? The hallway warps around me as I careen toward the bathroom. These must be especially weak. I’ll just pop a few more. Slurping some water from the faucet, I toss another three harmless looking pills into my mouth.
Spanish class is when I begin to think I may have been given duds. God, this class is hilarious. I can’t stop laughing for the life of me. Why is everyone staring at me? Can’t they see how funny this is? My fit stops as I topple from my chair and hit the ground. Sitting back down, I think to myself that I have to tell Jacob these pills are no good. The teacher is yelling at me. What does he want?
“Come sit up next to me until you can behave yourself.” I’m laughing again now, but I do as he says and contain myself until the bell rings.
English class. We have a quiz today. I hate this teacher. She is a menopausal, uptight bitch... Shit, did I say that out loud? No, no, of course I didn’t. Why is this quiz written in such a confusing manner. I raise my hand to ask a question.
“Why are you yelling?” the kid in the seat next to me asks.
“Why indeed, Mr. Mostlysapien?” this blonde gargoyle of a woman asks in a shocked tone of voice.
“I’m not yelling.” I respond.
“You’re still doing it!”
“Sorry.” I whisper. Several people give me strange looks, as though I’d just committed some terrible indecency, and the quiz resumes as normal.
As the final bell rings, I stumble toward the car. Mom asks me how my day was. I tell her it was fine. She looks at me with a raised eyebrow, but I put my headphones on and press play on my iPod. The drive home is uneventful. I’m very happy.
Climbing up the stairs to my room as I arrive home, I slip and fall down the whole flight of them. It doesn’t hurt at all. I must have been lucky. The floor feels nice. I decide to lay there for a few minutes, giggling. Then I head up to my room. A few minutes later, a knock sounds at my door, and Mom walks in, looking concerned.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you on something?”
“What? No, of course not!” I snicker. That’s a funny thing to ask me.
“Tell me right now if you’re on drugs, Mostlysapien!”
“No. I’m... Not. Not on anything.”
“Why are you slurring your words and taking so long to respond to me?!”
She says more words. I say more words. She leaves the room. I sit there, slowly coming to terms with the horrifying notion that perhaps those Klonopin worked a great deal more than I thought. The minutes pass by as I try to figure out what is happening.
There is a much firmer knock on the door, and a voice from outside.
“Can I come in, man.” a husky baritone sounds muffled through the door. It is my brother, John. In his mid-thirties, John is related to me through the same mother, but he is far older. Having had more than his fair share of drug experiences at my age, it makes sense that Mom would have called him over. Recently, he moved into the same apartment complex as us, working odd jobs, so he took no time in heading over. Standing six and a half feet tall, and built like a refrigerator, he is an imposing presence in the room.
“Tell me what’s going on, bro. I’ve been around the block a few times. I understand, don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to tell you.” I’m panicking. Can I trust him? Mom asked him over. Will he tell her?
“I promise I won’t tell Mom.” he assures me, as though reading my mind.
I sigh, “I took a lot of klonopin.”
The door slams open and in walks my mom. She has a look on her face that I never wish to see again. This is more than anger. This is pure rage.
“How fucking dare you, you little piece of shit! Doing drugs at school?! You are never going to leave this house again!”
“Mom! Mom, calm down!” my brother pleads. She continues her rant, and I make a break for the door. If I can get out of the house, go somewhere and come down, I’ll be fine, I tell myself. Noticing my move, Mom blocks the door. Dad has heard the noise by now, and he’s in the doorway too, looking like a deer in the headlights. I am trapped, caged like an animal. No escape.
My body is in fight-or-flight mode now. My eyes skip toward the large window behind me. Can I make the drop? No one expects me to try. Crossing the room in a stride, I thrust my elbow into the windowpane, shattering it. John lunges for me. There’s not enough time to get out. Fight it is, then. Ducking John, I clutch the largest, most dagger-like fragment of glass from the ground. My brother bounced at clubs for years, and stands a full foot over me. Even sober, he could disarm me without breaking a sweat. As I swipe at him menacingly with my shiv, he twists it from my wrist and tackles me to the ground, bringing his full weight to bear on my chest. Unexpectedly, however, the benzo high has given me an advantage in this fight: I am impervious to pain. Adrenaline shoots through my body, and feeling like a very small Hulk, I simply lift John off of me and resume my flight toward the door. He grabs me again, this time putting me in a bear hug as he pins me to the floor. I lift him off again as though he were a sack of potatoes.
Suddenly, another body joins the fray. Pete is our next door neighbor. Dark skinned, and slightly bigger than John, my parents have had time to run next door and tell him it is an emergency. He pins one of my arms as John pins the other. Completely insane now, I slide out from underneath the both of them, shoving John against the wall. He comes back at me, insisting that he only wants to help me in as loud and calm a voice as he can muster. I scream primally, fully transformed into a savage and unnatural creature.
Dad’s voice drifts through the yelling and grunting: “He’s upstairs.”
Pete is forced backward once more, and as I rise once again I feel an intense pain radiating throughout my body, accompanied by a white noise in my eardrums that drowns out all other sound. As I collapse to the ground, I make out the discharged taser gun stretching from my neck to the uniformed police officer at the entrance of my room. Then the lights turn off.
Submitted July 09, 2015 at 03:03PM by mostlysapien http://ift.tt/1UDNXVl opiates
