Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Sixteen: Dead End

Late February, 1999.

I've often wondered why the mirror is considered the pinnacle tool for snorting coke.

Why the mirror? Is its smoothness, its plane, polished surface superior to that of a glass pane, just as flush, just as capable of being debris free with a quick cleaning so the fine powder flung along the gloss isn't defiled by oils and gunk, rendering its fluffy, chemical spiciness impure?

In reality, anything half ass clean and untextured can serve as a proper place to crush and throw lines, to chop and chop until minuscule pebbles become akin to talc seconds before it disappears, sucked into your sinuses, flooding your head and chest with thrumming, encapsulating heat that makes your eyes roll and your spine tingle with such sinful, desensitized satisfaction.

Maybe it's some mystical, magical endowment, the adoration for the mirror.

Or maybe it's just simple illusion, a trick played to fool your brain into thinking it receives a larger torrent of deceitfully merciful endorphins.

I'd always preferred the glass pane for the simple reason that it bothered me to watch myself willingly and eagerly inflict myself with poison I knew in some far-flung thought on the edge of my mind I shouldn't be fucking with. 

Too bad the high was too good to resist. And it's too bad coke is one of the biggest nags in the drug world. Its wired surge never lasts; once you got it, you gotta have more, and the itch doesn't like to quit until it gets what it wants.

The ritual of preparation, the anticipation and wonder that preceded the gentle sting of a needle was always rush, a turn on so strong the only thing that alleviated my arousal was the sweet, soothing warmth that instantaneously followed it, the pleasant fire that licked my veins, because by then nothing mattered to me. Nothing. No one. And certainly not myself.

But that was long ago. Heroin, true heroin, held no luxury, no allure, no seduction.

And while my proclivity for poppies held so much delight I lustfully reveled in watching the process, my dilated pupils, the fear and loathing they harbored, and my tight, clenched jaw was vulgar to glance upon. I was not apt to view my own short comings, my own follies so starkly and up close, only reinforcing what a colossal, selfish, fuck up I was.

But maybe if I had just taken down the mirror, the simple square mirror with its matte black wooden frame that had been witness to a mixture of debauchery, gluttony, self-destruction, and just as much love over the years, that hung on the wall of my studio for just such a purpose, things would've been different. 

Then again, things would've been different if I'd actually done them differently.

Maybe if I could've seen myself through those thick white lines I would've understood. Maybe I would've truly seen myself in my reflection as I hovered above my broken image, shattered inside and out, distorted by the bleak stripes, so violently bright and contrasted with my dark strings of greasy, wavy hair and sallow, greying skin. Maybe then I would've truly seen the hollowness of my gaze, registered the screaming urge to reach out for help before I numbed it, slashed it to pieces with another generous line to deaden my guilt. Kill my helplessness. Muzzle my pride.