Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Woof

A riddle/one-shot based very loosely on the song "Woof" by Approaching Nirvana.

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They used to call me Woof before I came here, before they dragged me in and locked the door behind me. They said that I had sad dog eyes and they joke about how I always beg them for scraps. That's a whole other story that I won't even get into right now. Nobody here understands; they just look at me with sympathy and shake their heads, holding back an eye roll and plastering on a smile whenever I insist that I'm fine, that I don't need to be here. I don't have a problem - the rest of the world does. They are too strict, too rigid, too complacent, too uptight.

Nobody knows what desperation feels like. Loneliness. Need. Fear. Loss. You have never felt these things. Not like I have.

There's nothing quite like walking down a pitch black alleyway at one in the morning, all alone and in search of a friend. No, I'm not a dealer. I don't have the courage or the connections to pull that off. I'm no Turq. I just need a hit, a fix, a shot, a friend.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you that all of my friends are inanimate objects, feelings, illusions. No one understands that unless they've been in this head space. You would be here with me if you knew how it felt. I'm so alone when I am surrounded by people. I can only feel alive, whole, worthy... I can only feel that way when I am dead, impaired, rejected. Go ahead. Call me a trash head, a junkie, a loser. I know I'm hopeless, but I can't think of a better way to live.

At least I'm not friends with Krokodil, or I guess they call him Bodil on the streets now. I have that one thing going my way. I might rot my teeth, burn my lungs, scar my veins - but at least my flesh doesn't come off in sheets. At least my bones won't decay from the inside out. Yes, I'm still rotting to the core, but I hide the holes well enough that hardly anyone else can see them. I am an illusion, too.

Have you ever met my friends? I hardly talk to them myself, but someone always seems to be around to keep me company. They just have a way of appearing out of the blue. They're very persuasive when they ask me to join them.

Mitch and Nooch act like polar opposites, trying to outdo each other and trying to force me to choose a side. I can be down, I can be up, but I can never be anywhere in between. It never ends well if they meet, although I think they secretly like each other's company. Turq introduced me to them right after I finished high school. I have known them for what feels like forever.

Mitch with his profound ideas, his inner peace, his timeless wisdom. Spending time with him and his munchies always leads to an empty fridge and stretchy sweaters and waistbands. I could be the Dalai Lama if he was willing to take the time to teach me.

Nooch gives me endless energy, boundless creativity, and infinite hours in a day. Everything inside of me is on fast-forward while the rest of the world just keeps plugging along. He pulls at my limits and hollows my cheeks as hours fly by without sleep or food. Too bad he has melted all of my spoons and scarred my arms.

Isn't it ironic that their refusal to settle their differences forces me to spend time with both of them, so that I can look and act some semblance of normal? The joke seems to be lost on both of them.

Next we have Little Lachy, one of Mitch's old friends. They spend a lot of time together, and Lachy gets along with a surprising number of my other acquaintances. If it can be smoked, puffed, breathed... it if can cloud your mind, then Lachy is your main man. It's a shame he's so hot-headed and temperamental. If you push his buttons the wrong way, you will get burned.

The only exception to Lachy's smoky domain is Icky Vikky Sticky, my sworn enemy and my exalted savior. Just take a drag and hold it to the count of three, and all of your worries will disappear, at least for a little while. Named after his obnoxiously cocky creator who plasters his name and face all over the refill packaging, I picked up Vik after Mom started worrying about me smoking too much nicotine. She acts as if that's my biggest problem. Vik is my most socially acceptable friend, the one I can hang out with in public without getting too many stares of disapproval. It's a shame that spending time with him is such a pain - whenever I take him anywhere, his gooey blood always stains my jeans and drowns my cell phones.