Ecstasy

Chapter 26

A/N New updated chapters will be uploaded frequently, as I go through the process of re-writing things. The next few directly following this one, will have subtle differences, and in some cases entirely new scenes. Enjoy! Also, I am aware this chapter is in present tense, unlike the rest of the story. Just trying it on for size. Let me know what you think.

Tyson:

I jump awake and it's dark in my newly–painted room. The air still smells like paint, and all my toys are pushed into the centre of the room. A sliver of golden light shines in through the crack under my door. Only now do I hear the sounds from behind the door. Shouts, mumbled voices, angry tones. I get up and pad across the dark room, reaching up to twist the doorknob that I can barely reach. The voices flood up the stairway to reach me. All the lights are on and burn into my eyes, I cover them with my hand. I follow the railing to the top of the stairs.

The sounds are louder now, and I slowly make my way down the stairs. I don't understand the words that are being shouted, but I can hear where they're coming from now. I step around the corner and look through the archway into the living room.

My father slaps her over the cheek. He holds her wrists with one hand, but she still struggles to escape. Her hair is knotted down her back. His face is red and his eyebrows disappear into his eyes. He turns her around to bend her over the arm of the couch. Now can I see her face. Tears track her cheeks like road maps.

When he starts to yell and shout again, gathering up her skirt to her waist, I whimper. Her head shoots up at the sound, and she looks at me with those eyes.

She's asking for help and I can't do anything. I'm too small and he's too big. He's a monster. The monster under my bed, on the other side of my closet door. The monster down the hall in my parents' bedroom.

I can't look at her face anymore. I turn and run. I make it down the back steps before he even realises I was there. The night is cool and dark, and the air tastes like salt. My feet are moving by themselves and I can't stop.

I keep moving, running, until I'm so far gone into the sugar cane. When I look back the house, it's as small as a doll's house. I can only see the roof. Not the inside. Not the living room, where my mother is dying. The wind through the cane sounds like rain, and I wish it was coming from the heavens. It's too hot, and my heart is hammering on my ear drums. I wish was dying too.

I jerk awake, breathing heavily. I glance around the room and I try to orientate myself, remind myself of time and place. But the image of her eyes, and her tear stained cheeks, so clear after all this time, won't leave my mind.

I sigh, and sit up on the edge of the bed. I've been sober for too long. I rub my face with my hands and pinch the bridge between my eyes. The glowing red light of my alarm clock reads 2:00am.

Her old guitar sits in the corner of the room, innocently enough. A broken string curls up at the head. I want throw it out the window.

Standing up I decide to get dressed. I find a pair of jeans and a t–shirt before pulling on my leather jacket.

When I shut the front door behind me, I know exactly where I'm headed.

I know the way to Nate's place almost unconsciously. I've walked the streets for so long now I don't even notice streets signs or the houses along the way. It's very quiet out here, this far away from the city. The only sound is from far off. It could be a siren, or maybe it's just the wind.

I'm glad the walk is a short one, because I don't think I could go any longer alone. My mind betrays every thought of ignoring the past and I can't convince it otherwise. God I need a fix.

Finally I'm at Nates place. The familiar pink fibro house looks tired and could do with a paint but it's always looked the same. I walk up alongside of the house, between the house wall and the fence. I stop at the window and tap on the glass. I don't get an immediate answer, so I tap again until the white curtain is pushed aside, and the window sash is pushed up by a grumpy Nate.

"Quit it would you." He looks terrible with his red hair sticking out all over, and patchy regrowth stubbling his cheeks. He's either just got out of bed or is still high. I climb in through the window as he retreats into the dark room.

The familiar bedroom smells like it always has – of sweat and pot. The room is a complete mess, the only clear spot of carpet is the spot beside his childish red metal bunk bed.

"Get dressed. We're going out." I lean back on the window sill.

"It's two in the bloody morning." He rubs his eyes.

"Yeah and I feel sober." I try to make it sound like a joke but Nate doesn't buy it.

He picks up a shirt from the floor and slips it over his head. "Just stop thinking about it," he says quietly.

I frown, and try to push down the growing jealousy I have for his simple life. "We're going to Tommie's. I feel like shooting up."

"What? Since when?" Nate asks. "Last time you used a needle was when you were what? Fourteen? Four–five years ago? You said you'd never do it again–"

"I know," I interrupt. "But that was a bad trip. I just feel like a fast fix."

Nate stands up. "Alright, alright. Let's go."

***

"Hey man, how's it going?" Thomas opens the door for us happily, obviously never having gone to bed in the first place. He's always awake. I don't think I've ever seen him sleep. That might attribute to the dark circles which always seem to be inked on underneath his eyes.

I walk directly into the kitchen and wait for them to follow. I know Nate is having a quiet word with him. I try to ignore it, but it's making me more irritated than I already am. Why can't he stay out of it?

Thomas rounds the corner and his gleeful smile has slipped a level.

"What are you feeling like today, Sonny?" He navigates the island bench to stand across from me.

"What are you offering, Tommie?"
His smile returns full forced to my deadpan question. He leans his forearms on the bench. "Just got some new smack. High's awesome with some coke?"

I nod. I don't really care. Just something to get rid of this damnable mood, and recurring memories.

I watch him patiently as he sets up the shot. He tells me it's best to do them both separately, because the high lasts longer. He's meticulous and very quick. I notice he doesn't dissolve the coke with heat.

"You can't cook this coke cause it hardens. It'll clog the needle," he explains. He sterilizes the needle with a lighter, and soaks up the coke with a cotton bud filter. He turns to me with the loaded needle. "Want me to do it?"

I know from the last time I missed a shot how painful it was, so I hold out my arm. "Yep."

He comes around the bench and takes my wrist. He slaps my forearm a few times and waits for a vein to appear. He positions the needle and hesitates. "You good?"

"Yeah." I urge him on. The needle pricks my skin and I feel that little 'pop' as it enters the vein. Thomas draws back on the needle to check, and a mushroom cloud of red blood taints the contents of the syringe. When he pushes the plunger I start counting. 1, 2, 3, 4... It hits me at eight. It's like a whoosh. I can taste it in my mouth, cold and metallic, and my head feels dizzy. The body buzz is more euphoric than ecstasy, and I'm glowing. I feel ten feet off the ground. God, it's almost too good.

After ten minutes the peak is gone and Thomas is mixing up the heroine. He doesn't bother sterilising the needle again, but he cooks the heroine down into a brown puddle in the spoon. He uses a different vein this time, but I'm moving around to much for him to get a clear shot. "Sit still," he commands. I'm laughing and I feel like I am trying to do what I'm told but I'm failing. I don't care. He ends up asking Nate to hold my arm still from the shaking. "Ow." I complain when the spike meets my skin. He repeats the same process of checking the blood flow before plunging. I feel this hit immediately. It's strong and consistent and it makes me feel grounded. The shakes disappear and I feel strong. Invincible.

I can't remember anything but the present and for some reason I'm happier for it.