new writer in town
Out of context: Reply #10
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- meffid0
I'm a writer, here's one of my stories:
I am forever amazed at the amount of time and effort guys put into perving, calling, flirting, grabbing and fucking girls. They're the bain of my existence. Everytime the shit hits the fan I catch myself saying "Novak, you're a fucking chode. Stop chasing skirt." Exactly thirty seconds after that is said aloud, I come to my senses and get back to what feels as natural as farting for me.
The thing that amazed me this time was the new low I was thrown into with this chick. And how the more she got me wound up, the more I wanted to fuck myself up.
We'd had an argument and I found myself downing beers and an idiotic rate in this fucking dive pub called The Castle in Farringdon waiting my partner in crime; O'Shea to turn up. I'm about eight pints in and it's around 10pm when he calls and blames his lateness on a something along the lines of "train... delay... engineerin..." I feigned interest after about the fourth word, hung up and stumbled outside.
Everyone was an asshole. I was that kind of intoxicated. Everyone's a stupid wanker except me. This was half bought about by the rate of which I was downing Guinness and the other half my new found wisdom that I didn't need some bitch in my life to fuck it up. I can do a perfectly good job myself. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to fight every stranger that walked past and looked and me with "sideways eyes". I fucking hate sideways eyes. Sideways eyes are when you point your head forwards where you're walking and look to the extreme left or right so the person you're gawking at doesn't know it at first glance back at you. They're saying "I'm looking at you, but I'm not even bothering to point my head at you because you look fucking worthless". Eventually I found a taker of my polite offer of a street brawl. Only something unexpected came next.
Mike introduced himself and immediately pointed out he was homeless and wasn't much of a fighter, then politely bothered to ask my name in return and if I minded him sitting next to me on the footpath for a while. I inclined and bought him a beer in a moment of drunken pity. We sat for a while shooting the shit and talking about life and love and how many times the cops had picked him up for pissing in the street, or pissing in his pants in the middle of the street when high. And of course it was a pity sales pitch, he wanted money. I wanted to spend it on beer so back to fight mode, "Give me a fucking reason you want money! And make it good!" I blurted while stumbling. "I need it for a room to sleep tonight man... c'mon!"
I called his bluff. He didn't want a room. He wanted to get wasted. He had a great H dealer that lived just a block from where we were and it was thirty quid. I found this out when we were standing at the bottom of a council block in the pissing rain waiting for some black sheila called 'Simone' to come down and deliver our brown.
I'd taken pity on Mike, yet refused to give him money. If he wanted to get wasted I made him firstly agree he was an addict, secondly, he was indeed going to spend my money on Heroin, and lastly he had to take me with him to try it... Heroin. Mike reluctantly agreed. Anything to get his fix.
Now let me set this straight. I've done my fair share of drugs. Pills, Coke, Ketamine, Uppers, Downers, Rounders... etc. But never H. I was scared shitless. I'd just taken two phone calls. One from O'Shea and one from the girlfriend. I was wild so it seemed to sap up my anxiety of trying this shit for the first time. O'Shea wasn't turning up anytime soon as he'd bailed so Mike and I found ourselves in a chinese takeaway somewhere off Clerkenwell Road.
Contrary to popular belief. Heroin doesn't make you chuck your guts out. We'd just scoffed some chinese and were sitting under a bridge while the rain continued to piss down. Mike asked for a cigarette and rolled a new one with the brown powdery substance inside it. It was enough for both of us he proclaimed. I insisted I snort some off my chinese dinner box also. He agreed and what I can remember next is well... not a lot. I smoked my share of the dirty, crusty, ciggie Mike had had his unwashed mitts all over.
What happened next was amazing. NOTHING. Mike and I were in our paces back to The Castle where I was meant to be awaiting my sisters arrival also. Only this time the walk was different. Walking was different, almost unmanagable. I went to explain this to Mike when I found speech difficult. Everything seemed to be getting harder by the second. It dawned on me that I was completely fucked and barely functioning yet it didn't concern me. I could have been stabbed, shot, kicked in the head and would've felt absolutely nothing. It was induced magic. My problems of the night were gone, the small pain on my back where I'd just been tattooed, the want and need to do anything apart from smoke a cigarette was nothing but a slight memory.
Homeless people I guess don't have your regular problems. Bills, mice in the pantry, a shitty job etc. They have other longer lasting scars I figure. Mike had been sexually abused by his father and then step-father over what must've seemed like a countless amount of years through his childhood. Heroin made him feel 'light' again. Like it all just washed away.
My shitty problem washed away for about an hour and a half, I then took the rest of the brown stashed in my shorts to Fabric, where I recounted my tale with HARD drugs to anyone who'd listen over a couple of lines of coke in the smoking area.
I wonder what happened to Mike and if he ever washed his hands.