A short story featured in Tobeco literary magazine
Amphetamines used to be this underground thing that took connection-- real connection-- like, knowing a guy who knows a guy who knows a convicted felon who makes illicit drugs from motor oil and fryer grease out of the basement of an abandoned mattress factory. Thirty years later, it was still like that, although the felons were your neighbors and the drug making took place right along the sidewalk.Among simmering seasoned meats, intermingling with the nutty smells and heat of sputtering peanut oil, something else titillated the senses, stinging lungs of families that passed and making their children’s eyes well. Behind hastily built stalls made from dilapidated wood and sea-washed plastic, vendors periodically stirred a pot off to the side, added a liquid from a non-labeled jug, portioned some off-white powder into a bag or placed a tiny propellant onto an even tinier brown ampoule.Twenty years ago, this kind of thing would have resulted in the government’s militia barreling down these streets in riot gear and detaining whoever their grubby hands caught under drug conspiracy charges. You would know, because you used to be part of that militia. This is after the war, however, and several things have changed since then, including, evidently, your stances on amphetamines, because fifteen minutes ago you bought one of those brown bottles and violently inhaled the contents through your left nostril-- preceded, of course, by consumption of various other substances ranging from the alcoholic to psychotropic variety. Now you've locked yourself in a single use bathroom that reeks of piss, leaning against a porcelain sink to gaze at your mirror's reflection, admiring with equal amounts of fascination and horror as your pupils eclipse your irises.Along with being harder to obtain, amphetamines also used to be much less palatable, though perhaps that's your age showing. The bottle’s clear liquid still harnessed the fires of hell as it pushed through your nasal cavity, a sensation you almost forgot the severity of, threatening to make you sputter the substance upward had it not been for the cooling agent that made fast work on the burning in your airways. This was as appreciated as it was mildly infuriating. Pre-war amphetamines refused to hold your hand, reduced you to a mere animal at the mercy of its own body, told you ‘if you want to play hard, you must be hard.’ This new stuff was clearly designed through generations of party-raging youth riding the sacrifices of their addict predecessors.The bottle lay discarded on its side in a little divot at the corner of the sink, the smallest pool of clear liquid settling at the bottom, while the black straw rests above the rustic abyss of the sink’s drain, dropped as soon as its use was fulfilled. Minutes passed, and the world slowed, your fingers blurring as you watched them search your features with unfamiliar curiosity. The greenish overhead light’s humming felt like it came from everywhere at once, while the cacophony of passerby beyond the door grew ever distant. The bathroom’s piss smell became a non-issue in the face of these new curiosities.You swore you could feel the moment the amphetamines forced open your GABA receptors and flooded your neural pathways with that sweet, sweet rush of dopamine, and while it was a while since you stole from the precinct’s stash, you also swore it did not feel at all like this, because after staring at yourself for fifteen minutes, you slowly realized the person in the mirror was not you.The lucid part of you, the piece of your brain that remained untouched by recreational influence, knew it was you, undoubtedly, because that was the only thing that made logical sense, and yet the dilated pupils that stare into yours don’t feel like your own. Your fingertips graze over your nose, your cheeks, lips, searching for any sense of familiarity amidst the bloated features. This oily skin is someone else’s coffin. It has to be. Surely this wasn't you. It wasn't always like this, when did it get like this?A warmth travels up your neck and your clothes cling uncomfortably to your body. A hand tugs at your collar, trying to loosen its constrictive grip around your neck. Your fingers travel to the bottom of your shirt, fumbling to pull it above your head, while your other hand works to undo your fly. It’s as you're caught in this web of fabric and contortion that, through the neck hole of your shirt, right as it’s about to go over your head, you catch a glimpse of this stranger’s sullen face, and a thought jolts your brain, one that hasn't crossed your mind in years:This is what it means to be a cop.Trauma, aching joints, years of thralldom to a system of a system, incapable of truly caring for anyone it served or protected, and for what? A vague effort to feel something again? To be someone else-- something else? And in that pursuit you become the people you once mercilessly beat with truncheons at the behest of someone with a higher paycheck.The shirt falls into a crumpled pile on the floor. The person in the mirror squares their shoulders, offering a scowl. Your knuckles grow white against the sink. Your face magnifies as it inches closer to the mirror, close enough that a spreading flush can be seen traveling beneath your pores. It's not just the substance abuse coloring your face, now. Sharp breaths flare your nostrils, fogging the mirror. Your shoulders rise and fall with the movements.This person in the mirror? They are not you. They are scum. A pig. Bloodhound. Corpo.Cracks spider web across your visage as your knuckles make contact with the mirror. You reel backwards, wincing through your teeth, your free hand nursing a stinging pain from your fingers. Three bullet-sized craters lay embedded in the mirror, lines pulling across their corners to each of the mirror’s. Between it all, your image still stares back at you, split into five different ways, yet amounting to the same painting as before.Crimson spills into tiny circles on a white-tiled floor. Shoes about five times their size stumble over each other and smear them, creating a miniature Picasso of grotesque proportions. Thirty years ago, mirrors were not this durable.You flex your bruised fingers. The person in the mirror is recognizable again, mocking you every time you pass it, scowling through cracks in reality as they clutch their bleeding knuckles. Whatever world lies on the other side of that mirror, you take pity as they have to deal with the pure and utter scum that is looking back at you.Hey, come on, now. Be easy on yourself.The voice is sharp and sudden, forcing your feet to stop. Though it’s deceptively warm, you’re included to listen.Everyone has moments where they slump off their thrones and their crown clatters across the floor. This bathroom, the empty ampule, your shattered reflection, does not define you. What defines you is the legacy of your past. No one can take away your ranking, your hard work, the people you've helped and the lives you've changed. There are few facts of life, instrumental to your survival: you are your most valuable ally, people cannot be trusted, and there will always be a need to squash scum under the heel of a lawful boot.You glance at your splintered reflection.At least, as long as you have anything to say about it.One day-- this city, these people, the future-- they will all wake up and recognize your absence, and it will be too late. You won't care. You won't acknowledge them. You won't even spare a passing glance, no matter how hard you try, because it would be far, far too late.Unbeknownst to them, you are a god. An unrecognized, bastardized, disgraced god.You blink and your eyes feel heavy. Colors blur. The reflection feels miles away. Stomach acid burns up your esophagus, and you choke it down. Using the sink as support, you let your knees gradually slacken until you've poured yourself onto the cold bathroom floor and your cheek is pressed against the sticky tiling. The piss smell is more evident, down here. It's mixed with something metallic-- dirt, and your blood, now mere inches from your nose.An audible peeling noise can be heard as you lift your arm off the floor. It goes back to nurse the wounded hand above your chest, whose stinging pain persists even through your muddled mind.
The fluorescent light stares down at you, humming with judgement. The brightness pieces like a bullet through your skull. You close your eyes.You'd think a god would have somewhere better to sleep. Ingrates, the lot of ‘em.One day they’ll realize. One day. But, for now, the void’s tender arms envelop your sides, coaxing you into her bosom, whispering words of affirmation and promises of a better tomorrow, a tomorrow where at least one person would see you for what you really are. You know they're all lies. They've always been. And yet, you can't help but listen.Behind your eyelids, abyssal darkness pulls you under murky waves. Your synapses slow, blood growing a few degrees colder, nerves signaling for your muscles to slacken, telling them that the fight is over. Then, it's like someone pressed the STOP button on a VCR. The light’s humming ceases. There is no more piss smell, no more chatter outside the door or from the furies in your head. Pure void, black as pitch-- warm, embryonic bliss.Get some rest, detective. You've earned it.