Somewhere in Between

2

 The first time Willem had snorted cocaine had been at a party with Francis and Meera. "I think we should go," Francis had said. "Don't tell me you don't want to either—because no one in their goddamn right mind wouldn't!"

Willem sat across him holding back a laugh. For the past twenty minutes, Francis had sat around trying to make him agree. "You know that rich kid, Matthew? Biology freshman year yeah? Okay well, he invited me to a party at his house on Saturday and we have to go. It's supposed to be so wild, everyone is going," he had said.

Willem hadn't liked crowds, so he refused. Francis had protested his response as if it wasn't a question at all, instead of an order.

"You're going," he announced. "I'll drag you if I have to—and Meera, you too."

Willem looked over at Meera, who was sitting behind Francis like a shadow. Her eyes darting around the room finally landing on his with a smile.

"France don't make him go if he doesn't want to. He can be a loser if he wants," she smirked, making him narrow his eyes.

"Meera—" he had started but had been cut off by Francis, "you guys are both going, now shut up and stop fighting," and so they had gone.

That Saturday he'd found himself at the party, wasted against a table in the living room. Francis and Meera had since disappeared—or maybe they hadn't but he couldn't remember. All he remembers was the table and the noise from around him.

"Get up," a voice had yelled, pulling him to his feet quickly. "Move move move," it had called, dodging Willem as they made their way toward where he'd come. That's when it had hit him, where he was and how many people surrounded him screaming, laughing... He turned around quickly. Watching the guy that had just yelled at him snorting a line of white powder off the table. Looking around felt like a continuous freeze frame, his eyes slowly dragging around and the lights blurring.

"Hey!'

Willem had turned right as the girl next to him handed it over. A rolled dollar bill, and for a while, he starred not knowing what to do with it.

"Go ahead try some," she smiled, dragging her hand down his arm. Something at the time he wasn't aware had been intentional. "Come on," she begged.

"How?"

She had taught him how and moments after he'd snorted it the numbness hit him. He froze for a second, letting himself go numb all over. It was then he'd fell in love as if he had found the cure for everything wrong with him. Suddenly, everything was better. Life was bearable and he'd found his anchor. Therefore he'd stay, everything felt possible then. Life didn't seem so tiring.

"Good shit," she had said. "When it hits you like that, it's pure."

Cocaine had given him the confidence he had lacked most of his life. That night he had explored anything he desired, the anxiety had disappeared andhe was finally given a voice. He loved the feeling of being talked to, and he loved the feeling of blending in. He was one of them finally, he no longer had to pretend he simply was.

Apparently, others had noticed a difference as well, people no longer avoided him but rather they yearned to be near him. Cocaine didn't make him any less of a piece of shit, that part hadn't changed, but cocaine made him a happy piece of shit, made it bearable to live with himself.

__

Drugs had expanded his view of life, and he started to enjoy the simple pleasures of it. He had sex, used and drank. He'd given into spontaneous urges that'd make stories for later on. He had become social, and even if he peeled away from society, drugs had made his life more stable, given his people to save him from himself.

He was better on drugs; he didn't feel like such a burden to others. They had saved him from making situations awkward, from backing out when his friends wanted to hang. All he had to do now was snort a line and wait. Then he'd be in the mood.

They offered him an excuse. If he had embarrassed himself or said something stupid, he automatically spits out something almost habit by this point.

"Sorry I was drunk. I wasn't thinking straight."

"Sorry I was high I shouldn't have said that."

The drugs had also taken from him though. Without them, he was worse than before, his moments of sobriety riddled with the urge. He needed them to function.

"Meera, you don't have to worry," he had said once as Meera cried. She had been scared she'd lose Willem to addiction. She was scared he'd become like her father, consumed for so long by his last breath he himself didn't have hope. Her father had rather die than be without drugs, and she feared the possibility of Willem falling ill to the same disease.

"Promise?"

"Promise," and after Meera had hugged him.

That promise had been the first reality of addiction, the lies, and reassurances. The denial of a problem, a lie to protect what he had craved.

Willem looks back now at these memories with a sick sense of gratitude—because that's what he was: sick. Not wanting to live meant you were doing something wrong, that there was an imbalance that needed to be corrected—as if seeing the world in its harsh reality was an illness. Because if anything that's what depression was, it was seeing the world as it was. How doomed we'd all be if everyone had seen it this way.

He thanks that girl for inviting him to what would be his new reality. Drugs had gotten him, got within his system and corrected the bad and exploited the good. They understood him; They knew the memories and thoughts to dim and the ones to magnify. They gave him a sense of belonging, a chance at a new beginning. These were the beginnings that would end him.

His habit became something he'd keep under wraps. While not high on coke he would smoke weed to dim the urge. While high off weed, he averaged longer without it. He could make it through the days in which he'd be surrounded by people he didn't want to know and high the second the moment had become pronounced.

While not high he felt starving. His body would ache and become extremely weak. All he thought about was being high, how bad he had felt without and how he couldn't take it anymore.

Any choice in life didn't come without its consequences though. Addiction had also distanced him. He no longer was the Willem he used to be while sober. Drugs had altered him, and without he was a shell of a person. Hallow and not someone others wanted around. Coke had robbed him of himself, supplying him with the Willem he had now. Only accessible when he inhaled its essence.

"Without drugs, you would've lost yourself long ago," they tell him. "Be thankful, don't disrespect what they're offering. Take it—" and he had each time.