HYDE: The Monster Within

1: Two Little White Pills

Just say no.

It’s easy, right? To just say no? Two little letters, one word. Piece of cake.

NO.

“C’mon,” Ripper smirks. “What’sa matter? Too scared?”

The flashing orange and red lights of The Yellowjacket club lights around the corner blur together as I shake my head and narrow my eyes at him. Overhead, the night sky bears down like a thick blanket, smothering me. The word - that one tiny little two-letter word - forms on my tongue. It should be easy to say. So why can't I?

“Jackie, what’s wrong?” Carrie simpers. She purses her cherry-red lips, puffing a smoke ring. The end of her cigarette burns gold before flaking off into gray ash. Her black hair sharply contrasts her pale skin in the dim light of the alleyway.

“She is scared,” says Ripper. He leers not inches from my face, strings of greasy brown hair swinging to and fro before his eyes. His breath reeks and I have to bite my lip to keep from coughing. I pull away, disgusted.

“No she ain’t,” Carrie says, leaning against the alley wall. The red bricks deposit a fine layer of rusty residue on her legs. Her black mascara has smudged beneath her eyes and her dress hugs her body far too tightly, making her look like a living skeleton. “Tell her it’s fine, Rip.”

“Jesus, how many times do I hafta say it? It’s fine, Jackie.”

I watch Ripper with calculating eyes. His head ticks every few seconds, a motion borne of too many years of drugs and alcohol. Even now I can’t be sure he’s looking at me. His once bright eyes have now become permanently glazed.

Ripper thrusts his palm under my nose. Two little white pills rest in the center of his grimy skin, blindingly bright in the darkness. They jitter, jostled by the shake in Ripper’s arms.

Just say no!

“Right,” I drawl. Feigning confidence, I jut my hip to one side and flip my curls over my shoulder. The sound of the club music pounding through the alley door hums through my body. “You think I’m just gonna believe you like that?”

I snap my fingers in Ripper’s face. He starts back and then laughs, a sound like a braying donkey. God I hate that sound. Every time Ripper laughs I want to punch him in the face.

“You think I’d rufie you?” he snorts. “I’d rufie a freshman before you, ok?”

“Ripper, don’t be rude,” Carrie says, taking another drag from her cigarette. Her nails are like claws, filed into sharp points and painted a shiny black that matches her outfit.

I glance at her. “You gonna try ‘em, Carrie?”

“Pff. Hell no. I don’t do pills, girl.”

Why am I even letting myself be swayed? Hell, I’m practically convincing myself. I should just say no. Like my parents told me, before they died. Like my teachers told me, before I stopped listening to them. Before I stopped going to school.

Before I started living on the street.

I tap my fingers nervously against the bottle I’m holding. “What’s in them?” I ask Ripper.

“Do I look like Einstein? It’s like the same stuff as painkillers. Like taking Advil.” Ripper twitches his neck, glancing nervously up and down the alleyway. If any undercover narcotics officers are nearby, this could land him in jail for years.

Advil, I think to myself. That doesn’t sound too bad. I could do with a little painkilling.

Tap tap. Tap tap. The glass bottle clinks against my false nails as I consider Ripper’s offer. What could go wrong?