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Junky Requiem

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Copyright 2017 ©Kelson Hargis

 

License Notes

This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This ebook licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please provide each recipient a link to download their own copy.  If you’re reading this book and did not download it, or it was not downloaded for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

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Junky Requiem

 

Kelson Hargis

 

He turns away indifferently upon noticing me, gazing down 3rd Street toward Premo’s Delicatessen as if contemplating a Reuben and kosher dill. Perhaps some play of the summer sun off the glass and steal buildings of East Flagler Street, Miami has enraptured him in a daydream of affluence and satiety.

      He coolly glances down at his left hip, palming his smart phone with some message undoubtedly of great import on it. Then I catch it trying not to be too obvious. His right hand is against the other hip, palm open behind him, the small cellophane package of white powder resting there. He knows me well enough for the trusted exchange. He understands. I’ll replace the bag with $50.00 and the clandestine cool of a Bond girl desperate for future deals. No snatch and run. That would be stupid.

      We have a symbiotic relationship. He needs Benjamins. I need dope. I quickly move on without a glance back after the switch. The Bayfront Park bus station isn’t far. The bathrooms aren’t bad either. (A good shit is usually in order not long after a do up anyway, especially if you’ve eaten lately.) There’s a line there from several buses unloading. I turn left for Bay Front Park instead. I’ll shit in the woods. The park is practically empty now as the buses leave after lunch. Where is everyone? They’re trapped on buses or dark cubicles like chattel making someone else rich.

      The grove of palm trees off to the North are dense enough. I find a large, old one half way in, squatting beneath it, listening to the gulls and waves of the Atlantic. Yachts lumber by on the way out to open water. I fish my kit and a squat candle from my gently used Coach bag. Most people would be astounded by what Miami Beach residents throw away. I cradle the candle from the wind between my thighs, lighting it. The junk is spilled into a glass meth pipe bowl deep in my purse. I swirl it above the candle flame until liquid pools in the bottom. The pipe lighter hole is perfect for cotton ball siphoning.

       I bury the filled syringe—my syringe—deep into my inner thigh, finding an extension of the femoral artery just above the knee. The heat races up my inner thigh engorging my clit, making it tingle before settling into my solar plexus. Warmth washes over the rest of my body like a soft blanket. My head involuntarily slams back against the palm trunk. The sun streaks through the fronds warming my face like the caress of an old friend. The universe swirls into my being, swelling into a riot of life, a cacophony of breeze, beach, ocean, sun, and vibrational synergy. Bliss.

      Five minutes—if you’re good—five minutes of tolerable, condensed degradation, and the rest of every day is mine. Most John’s don’t even realize, I’ve slipped a condom over their prick with my mouth—just part of the mystique. And the rest of the Miami sun beaches, palms, yacht parties, and clubs are mine. The cool night is mine. Three, five to ten minute tricks a day means that 99.99% of the rest of the day is all mine. And when I score that means 99.99% of it is ecstasy. How much of the day is yours? How much of that is ecstasy?  

       No shit job, no rent, no house payment, no car payment, no credit cards, no screaming, snot nosed kids, no ungrateful teenagers siphoning the life from me, no faked orgasms for someone trapping me in their own neurosis, no overtime just to impress people who too easily forget what I have.

      Junk pushes the pain out of every cell, radiating it from your persona. The pains not inside me anymore; it’s surfaced for all to see. I share it with every passerby unfortunate enough to lock eyes with me before their perceived tragedy of who I am repels their gaze away back into vacuity. That’s right: I’m too exposed, too free, too strong for you to assail with your eggshell fragile ego of imagined self-importance. Exposed pain so raw so familiar it stirs echoes of your own. The pain you hide in polite company while reassuring yourself that you aren’t really alone. Unlike me there are people that care about and rely on you. Sure there are.

      And they’ll walk away from your grave just like every other before you, whether you’re a junky or not. Perhaps more people will attend your funeral than mine but they all end the same. The living always walk away. So, I’ll be forgotten a little sooner, not have some charity, or park named after me. Don’t pretend that’s it’s not all going to turn to shit and be forgotten anyway, or that it matters to anyone fortunate enough to have a few more breaths left in them.

      Go ahead and keep working your lives away making others rich and trying to one up each other. As long as there’s a supply— (and there’s always a supply)—I live for the moment. I live for bliss.

 

 

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