Chemical love- Chapter One

Note: This rated PG 15, there is references to drug, and initially a glamorization of them.

One.

It's funny, but when your diploma has been handed to you, the graduation ceremony seems somewhat less exciting, if it ever was exciting, or something close to exciting. It actually turns out into something really boring, and dull. Therefore, I sat there half awake, half asleep trying to notice my classmate's expressions and perceptions, yawning myself to death, my eyes watering with every stretch of my mouth. But don't get me wrong, the teariness wasn't emotion, it was just yawning.

Haven't you found yourself submerged in those situations in which you know you should cry but somehow you just don't feel like it? Not because of apathy but just because you do not want to cry, not because you're ashamed of it, but just because you want, like a child having a tantrum, to keep your eyes dry. That is exactly how I felt on the day the headmaster was to hand our diplomas. Graduation, freedom in disguise, I never thought it offered a complete escape from restraint and obligations, but instead, for me it was like an emergency exit into more responsibilities, frightening responsibilities, real-world responsibilities.

So, as I yawned and pondered on these different kinds ofrestraint and lame, mind numbing obligations, I thought of my eyes; of how they looked like now that I had just finished my yawning session amidst someone important's speech. I worry too much. I always do. Were they too teary? Did it look like I was about to cry? This was key: I didn't want people to think I was going to cry! I didn't want to, they shouldn't build high expectations about my sensibility, anyway. I didn't want them to think I wanted to cry, just like they would cry later, because as I said, I didn't.

I always cared for what others thought, even if I denied it. Not because they meant something, just because I was fucking paranoid. Maybe that's why I decided to use some H that day, to prevent the aggravation of my paranoia. Maybe. All I know is that it was one crappy, fucking mistake. If I had known what was going to happen, I wouldn't have shot myself some H, well, I would have done it, but with some moderation.

One of my classmates whispered my name, calling me from behind, her name was Sandra, a nice girl, though she reminded me of puritans. I turned around trying to look as normal as I could. One of my friends was calling me from behind the puritan girl.

She wasn't like me. She got high though, but had other intentions. You see when you plan to cultivate a junkie lifestyle you choose a destructive substance, you have fun, lots of fun, but, eventually, it will screw you, and your life, I knew this, she knew this. She did pot. Lots of fun, but not enough...or perhaps too much fun, there was always a downside with H. Unlike pot, every time H lost its effect I Felt completely miserable. You can live without pot. H, on the other, you can't even imagine living without it, it just isn't feasible.

She mouthed something I couldn't understand, but decided to just nod in response. She suspected, so did my other, healthy friends, the others who lived happily even without some little chemical help. My parents had no idea. I was glad.

Once the headmaster, and all the other wankers had finished their moving, yet meaningless to me, speeches, we all stood up and sung the school song, well I babbled something that resembled it. Then it was over. I looked around me, I hadn't really realised it had finished and that I was supposed to hug people. But then, a girl, a classmate, called me and hugged me, and then I thought I should hug my friends, and I did, most cried, I felt a small amount of envy and a bit of guilt. But I still didn't feel like crying, I was too happy, in an apathic state of mind consciousness and lethargic demure. Maybe I was just realistic. As years passed by, as I got older and junkier, friends didn't mean what they used to mean. They were just faces, among a sea of more faces, all unrecognizable and meaningless. Faceless. I wouldn't miss them. Most wouldn't miss me, most didn't miss me already, most didn't care much about me, anyway. I didn't have the ability to make close friends. One night stands friends, yes. Convenient, who I didn't give a fuck about friends, yes. Some old time, long ago friends whose trust and sympathies were almost loss friends, yes. Those were friends.

My pot head friend behind Sandra called me again. She had teary eyes, the stealthy fucker, and opened her arms to hug me. As I hugged her back with droopy arms, I heard her say "I always knew we'd be friends forever. Yeah, forever just happens to end at highschool, a lot sooner than I thought. That miserable fuck, I couldn't believe her (now the violent junkie, the violent streak of H flooded my veins and blood torrent) She fucking used me, she literarily loved me then leaved me...not as a lover would do that, though, but for other, cooler pot heads. My friend had a weak point she needed people, unlike myself. She needed someone to follow, someone with a great fucking personality and a strong, popular character. I was that person once, when I was clean, and had a clean head to think things clearly and strongly, now I was just, a reactionary, in a way, I just react to what other people do.

I don't need people with a great personality, H has that great personality.

More friends, more hugs, more hugs more friends, it felt just like being in the ocean, in a storm, people wildering all around me, just like waves, and their voices, just like infernal winds of the deep, gusting, moving me around, tangling my hair and my thoughts.

I walked, among my classmates, trying to find my parents. I wanted to go home. No, I wanted to screw, really, but what were the odds. I didn't like anyone, not even girls and if I had liked a girl I would've gone for it, you sort of can't see the difference once H has done its thing, anyway.

A guy who I knew hugged me tightly and muttered something like "Finally...or "fantasy I don't know. I think he was also glad we were out of prison.

I had once been involved with him, never kissed, never fucked, but had a great fucking time messing around. I never did anything. I worry too much. I was like that, I let H do its thing in a submissive way. I just devoted to whatever H had to say, or do, or think.

There was this other boy, who was really smart, in a sort of kitsch way, who I really liked, or had liked. He was easy to admire: sociable, highly clever, blonde and a nice person. I was nothing like that: a bad person, dark hair, a hopeless society phobic, and not that bright anymore. I could interpret poems though. I didn't see him , I wanted to hug him if only to see if part of his charisma was transferred by physical contact.

All of a sudden, I recalled talking to him once about death. He really seemed freaked out, and seemed to pity me, the fucking bastard.. I love that, not pity, but how he seemed to think life was about having fun, parties, love and what not. He wanted that for him and for me and for everyone. He was easy to love and he came walking straight towards me, I gulped and tried a happy smile, but I think it came out more like a painful one. God I was constipated, H does that.

He looked at me and said "congratulations, I only looked at him. I didn't want him to think I was a junkie, I think he knew. He eyed me and said something I couldn't make out, and then it all turned to white, even though it was supposed to be black, it wasn't. Its pure snowy white, and it smelled too, yes, overdoses smell like muffins or maybe his arms embracing me, holding me as I shrunk to the ground, smelled. It didn't feel bad, not at all, it was like diving into a warm glass of milk, or water, or coffee, or your favourite drink, but warm. What did I care anyway, this was my first overdose and I was going to enjoy it.

Note: don't do drugs. I plan to continue this, what do you think? Please review.