That Fucking Rabbit

The trip started as it always did, with his imaginary friend the little white cartoon rabbit. As his heart started to bounce like the drum beat at a funkadelic disco, it hopped with a slow, lolloping gait, appearing right on the edge of both his peripheral vision and the outward spiral of conscious thought, cotton tail bobbing and nose twitching. Ian watched it with detached curiosity, wondering why his neocortex and...thalamus, wasn't it?...had decided on a fucking animated bunny, of all things, to kick-start the journey inside himself. Before he could explore this train of thought more thoroughly, though he found he had instead lifted the bong to his lips and inhaled deeply, holding the metallic-tasting hit in his lungs for a good fifteen to twenty seconds for maximum effect.

The Changa blend packed tightly into this particular bowl was a new mix; an exceptionally high percentage of DMT (or N-Dimethyltriptamine to give it its Sunday name; a naturally occurring and extremely potent hallucinogen found in many plants and animals) and a monoamine oxidase inhibitor in the form of Ayahuasca vine and leaves to extend the intensity and duration of the trip whilst tweaking out some of the nasty side effects of paranoia and anxiety. In the mix was also a raft of other, choice ingredients: cannabis, mullein, passionflower, some peppermint, calendula and blue lotus, plus an extra special ingredient that even One-Lung Roy, his long-time dealer, couldn't pronounce.

As the second hit filled his lungs and opened up his mind, the cartoon rabbit hopped closer to where Ian sat on the sagging, brown velour sofa in Peggy Pete's flat. It regarded Ian with pink-red eyes (pink-red cartoon eyes, his unravelling mind corrected) sitting on its haunches by a half-dead Yukka plant in a crusty pot. Flicking its little front paws once, it proceeded to casually groom one long, pink-lined ear between them, all the while watching him ceaselessly with those unblinking eyes. The light breeze from the open window stirred the yellowing lace curtain and the bunny let its eyelids droop slightly and tucked its feet close together as though enjoying the sensation. As figments of the imagination go, this one was pretty mundane, but what followed was anything but.

As Ian slouched on that flaccid sofa, caught somewhere between the normal, mundane world and the yawning chasm of his awakening mind, he hesitated for a second before taking his third hit. On the armchair opposite him Peggy Pete himself, one hand inside his baggy jeans and already knee-deep in Special K and what Ian referred to as his 'baby food' phase, was giggling uncontrollably. His eyes were barely focussed on the muted TV that sat on a low table littered with crumpled Monster cans and empty plastic baggies. The set played what Ian thought was an episode of The Antiques Roadshow but Pete's glazed eyes were seeing something else though. Knowing both him and the Ketamine, Ian was glad he couldn't see exactly what. The rabbit, which had been sitting peacefully, suddenly sprang forward without warning and, kicking its heels, bolted from his line of sight. Or from his line of imaging, he supposed. Shrugging slightly, Ian took his third and final hit, the breakthrough hit.
Inhale....exhale...

Everything suddenly slowed down, like the tape in an old-fashioned cassette player as its batteries run down.

Then time just...stopped.

The curtain twitching at the window froze, mid-flutter. Outside, a pair of pigeons were caught mid-air, wings bent in flight. The smoke drifting lazily from his open mouth hung, suspended in a cloud-like layer that almost looked solid. And Peggy Pete, one hand still deep in his jeans, had become as still as a waxwork figure. His glazed eyes showed nothing, and drops of sweat on his sallow flesh hung, suspended, on their journey down his face and into his straggly beard, every hair follicle perfectly rigid. Ian could see individual motes of dust caught in the mellow sunlight, hanging still in the quiet air. They were beautiful, and he stared for a thousand years or maybe just a few seconds.

Then everything started to whirl like a multi-coloured Fibonacci sequence, and Ian was sure he was dead.

The walls of the dingy flat around him seemed to recede and even his own hands, still clutching the bong like a talisman, seemed about a mile away. His body felt huge, expanded beyond conception as though his physical self had suddenly exploded outwards along with his consciousness. Then he was floating up off the ground, light as a feather despite his mountainous size, and rushing down a long, high-ceilinged hallway lit by beacons of dancing light. On either side were hundreds of jewel-bright windows. Behind each of them, he knew with absolute certainty, were all the secrets of the Universe, waiting to be discovered, but he had passed each one too quickly to get more than a tantalising glimpse of what lay beyond.