Pseudology

Twenty One

There was a deep, incredible feeling that spread over his chest… down to his waist, his legs, his toes. The warmth spread over his arms, down his elbows, through to his fingers and fizzed out of the tips of his hands. His skin was soothed by the surrounding heat and his eyes were closed against the bright lights in his mind, which was slogging along at a comfortable pace, thinking of what hair would feel like between his fingers.

He’d probably sniffed too much, and he probably shouldn’t take delight in it, but he did. The calm soon faded, taking a matter of about twenty minutes, and he was filled with an itchy emptiness which haunted his bones. The feeling he’d just had was perfect- there was nothing that came close- and he felt for those few moments that he could carry on forever like that, without any struggle or pain. But now he felt a little dead, like hanging on the edge of something that had just happened that no one could ever know about… He’d felt wonderful, and now he didn’t.

That was all.

II

His lungs expanded. Smoke poured out of his mouth, and his chest crumpled. Mind span. Toes wiggled.

“Are you A. Reid?”

Adrian looked to his left, out into the bushes and wild clumps of mud and tree. Over the hill was the nearest town, and about a mile away was the main road which linked everything in the God-forsaken place together.

Standing at the edge of the mouth of the footpath was the man that Adrian had been waiting for. He had grey tracksuit trousers on (Adrian hated those ugly, unfitted things) with a simple t-shirt and trainers. He walked like a constipated ape, and inside, Adrian felt a little sick. Yet his drive, the deeply pitted need for cocaine came first, dominating over his senses, and as he snubbed out the end of his cigarette, Adrian pushed all doubts from his mind.

“Yes, I am. You are Luke Cast, I hope?”

“Yep, I am.” the tracksuit cladded ape replied. “You want two grams, right?”

“If possible.”

“That’s fifty quid.”

Adrian paled, feeling his stomach twist. The man had no bags or luggage on him- was he planning to mug and run? Beat him? Rape him? Chuck it on the ground?

“Why is it so much?” Adrian asked as he dug his hand into his trouser pocket. He’d been careful to remove all trace of his school from him- his school shirt was covered with an old purple jumper, and he’d stolen a pair of grey trousers from Craig. His fingers caressed the twenty pound notes, but he did not pull the money out. His eyes moved up towards the dealer’s face.

“‘Cause it’s good stuff.”

“What makes it good?” Adrian’s gaze lingered over the man’s pockets, mind whizzing hungrily. He couldn’t see it. He should just leave, ignore his pains-

“It’s pure, y’know? Already made into powder, too. Clean snort. Great buzz, y’know? Worth it, definitely.”

Though Adrian doubted whether the man could even spell ‘definitely’, he nodded and drew out the money. Immediately, the dealer dived into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Then emerged a ten pound note, folded in half and sealed with clear tape. It looked like a harmless, folded note.  

“Put that in your pocket. Rip off the tape and there you go.”

“Fifty?”

“Yeah mate, fifty.”

Adrian handed over his money, the guilt leaving quickly and being replaced by a sense of excitement as the cocaine was handed over.

“Great, thanks mate.” the dealer replied, a smile creeping onto his face, and Adrian nodded. “If you need anything, just give me a call.”

“Will do.”

“Pleasure doing business, mate.”

“And you.” was all Adrian could say as he watched the dealer walk away.

As he was walking back over the fields, he could see the rugby pitch at the side of the house, scattered with largely built boys ramming into each other every fifty seconds, with an almond shaped ball kicking up into the air. Mud was being spluttered, and gathering grey clouds were knitting together overhead.

Adrian’s fingers were itching. In his pocket, his fragile stitched trouser pocket, sat his one addiction. It trumped all other feelings.

Adrian hadn’t realised that over the past two months, his other desires had faded. In the dead of night when sleep haunted him and a dim, dark feeling swirled in his chest, he had reached for scissors or sharp knives and torn at his own skin in an attempt to feel. When the feelings didn’t come, he would replay the darkest moments of his life, over and over; his mot.er’s death would bring hot tears to his eyes… finally, he would feel, but this was not enough. The cocaine, introduced by Phellis when they were younger; he had taken small amounts for several months, and had several months where he had not touched it at all, preferring the slicing of skin and -

His phone buzzed- it was his alarm to remind himself to be back at school to pack for the end of term. Crap.