(A fiction piece for The Speakeasy at Yeahwrite.me)
It ain't easy being a superhero. The power, electric like, pulsates as you feel your wings form and take you to new heights. Proverbially speaking.
Hell, I'm no superhero. Society sees me as the shitty ass piece of scum I am. As I walk down the street, people veer left and right, my superhero forcefield shoved them aside; maybe it's just the bugged out eyes, my tweaking gyrating dance my body performs without me as the chemicals make me their puppet.
Its all a dance, a well choreographed ballet. Dance mother fucker dance. As an introvert, the ritual of getting my fix itself needs a fix. I gotta arrive without suspicion, lest the neighbors call SWAT or ATF on my sorry ass. Already jumpy and paranoid, my hyper senses notice the curtains across the street move, and my heart jumps into my brain like a ping ping ball. Your serve.
Hell, I gotta be a bit high to get my high and to dance the dance. You can't just stroll in, "gimme my fix", toss down a twenty and leave. It's like a first fucking date every time. Small talk reigns, about non-intellectual bullshit like sports, tits, even the dammed weather sometimes. You finish the awkward date and its onto a counseling session, bitching about the old lady nagging you or whatever. Then, the magic show begins, QVC and Vanna White make a discreet appearance, as if its a fucking secret that you're here for dope.
If you loathe the pointless conversation and drawn out process like I do, you gotta be high to get through it all. But not so barely high that it wears off quick, causing nervous awkward chit chat that can signal you're a narc, making your very life at stake. But you also can't be so high that when you sample the goods, you can't tell shit from good and you get a bum deal.
I hate myself for my addiction but it isn't just the addiction that keeps me high. It's the mother fucking best feeling, being high. Self doubt, pain, troubles melt away and you're like a kid in a candy store. You become immortal. A superhero. Nothing can stop you.
I engage in this daily masquerade, the real me and the high me, battling reality, perception, relationships, the bills. Who knows I'm an addict? Do I wear the "normal self" mask well? Do I play the part well, hair in place, the right face on? Am I fucking kidding myself? Everyone knows. So, am I a superhero, an addict, scum, myself, or a ghost of my former self?
Every superhero has a tragic flaw, mine being when the high wanes and my blood turns to fire, my muscles to stone. I sweat buckets and become immobile, crouched in the corner, cursing myself for not getting my fix on time. My demons charge at me, no wall or disguise to stop them. I despise my self and my body, my life, my addiction. I hate the addict in me, the sober and imperfect me that led me to this place. I hate my everything. Yet, I also love the high, ah, what a poetic juxtaposition. I most of all miss the me before the high, before the superpowers, back when I was an infallible man in a simple world.
As I come down from the high, I for a moment consider releasing the bonds of addiction. Every time. But the bonds are suffocatingly tight. As I feebly pull myself up, ready for my fix, I look back to the corner and see my shadow self, multiple shadows crouching in the dark, whispering their farewells to the old me. A funeral procession of sorts, and the shadow me in the casket weeps for the lost self. Always nearly out of sight, that self whimpers for his death yet never really leaves the earth. He haunts me and guards the other shadows, waiting like a lost dog. I shut the door, so no one hears him as he cries out, "I sat there and waited, but he never came back"