My Friends

An old magazine featuring some annoying new diet trend is thrust in my face, powdered generously with a snow more beautiful than anyone Christmas Eve could produce.

The pain dulls, my lungs fill fully after much struggle, my brain slows, and my body becomes my own again. The hit dulls the pain, but it really never goes away.

Nothing I’ve found can help that. Not meth, not crack, not coke. Heroine, shrooms, acid, LSD.  Opioids, psychedelics, uppers, downers, all-arounders, it didn’t matter, nothing helped.

But those attempts, those words, were my friends… Mary Jane, Angel, Molly, Barb, Charlie, … those names, those mere words make me feel safer. They make me feel like it’s all bearable like good friends should.

They are just mere words though, minor temporary fixes for the pain, as most words usually are.

The floating arm that extended so angelically my escape this time belonged to Quentin.

Quentin’s the one who brought me here to this group initially. He’s the one who explained our kind benefactors to me.

‘There are those people in the world who suffer more than others,’ I remember his words clearly, memorized like a mantra to me. ‘Then there are those who make other people suffer more than others. Let’s say one of both of those two people happened to combine into one.  Imagine all the rage, the cataclysmic amount of fuel to their hate fire, that they must harbor. It’s almost understandable really,’ he said, I don’t know, I may do it, given the power.’

That, that right there, was the essence of who he, Quentin, really was. He was that weird unsettling feeling you got when trying to figure out if that quiet guy down the road was really okay in the head or not (he wasn’t), only in person. Quentin was… odd, in a depressing way.

Odd also in the sense that he was a 6’3 Italian junkie here stuck with us. He had the build of an NFL player, the hair of a foreign Fabio, but the face of a backwoods meth junkie. It was as if he was three separate people, separate stereotypes, all smushed together into one poor bastard.

I take another hit from Quentin and watch as Flynn goes under this time. As painful as it is to go through, watching maybe even worse. His silent screams and gnashing of his knuckles make me want to cry, but the dust I keep hitting makes me want to laugh at his writhing around like a fish fresh off the line.. Again, little pieces of happiness (no matter how fucked up they may be) go a long way.  

-D.R Breshears

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