Fetch the Dog

It was a fetch. Of my dog. Fetch the dog. Not funny.
If I explained to anyone, they'd say it was the heroin.
"It's the heroin! They'd say. Like I was stupid.
What the fucked up fuck do they know.
Yes yes, smack's played its part. It has somehow loosened the structure of whatever holds it all together, the whatever it is that stops you seeing mad shit all the time.
But heroin aint no hallucinogenic. It doesn't, of itself, make you see things. It can make you so fucked up you're as good as blind. It'll shut your eyes for the duration. In the early days I'd dream forever, and then I would be transported. But that aint seeing things, that's dreaming.
And anyway, those days are long gone.
And anyway again, I was standing up when it happened. Sorting out a hit. Cooking it up to be precise. I was not, at that precise moment, dreaming.
But that was a dog in the mirror behind me. My dog. But my dog was asleep on the bed. In the bedroom.
There aint no other dogs in my flat.
It was a fetch.
Of my dog.
Fetch the dog.
Not funny.
I went to find the dog.

All down my skinny corridor, hanging from the ceiling, were insects. Hanging from lengths of Bob's fishing line. The lines ended in the smallest tiny hooks, and there was a creepy crawly impaled on everyone: spiders, earwigs, beetles and things I'd not seen before. And they were just the right height to make you duck, and I had to cos there were so many of the fuckers. An infestation. The whole length of the corridor. It was horror film stuff, downsized. Done on the cheap. And ain't this what they do in the country? With squirrels and rabbits and stoats and shit? Hang them from a tree as some sort of warning? They're fucking primitive in the country. Fucking heathens with churches. And what sort of warning was this? It was creepy. The line was so thin all you could really see were the bugs and the hooks sticking through them. And like I said to get by I had to duck under, making me look up at them. That was really creepy. It had some freaky natural look to it, like they'd put themselves there. But I knew. I'd put them there. I couldn't remember doing it, but that doesn't mean shit. I did it. One of my rituals, no doubt. Warding something off, no doubt. The dog probably knew more about it than me, she would have been there, seen it all, but she wasn't telling, she never did.
I'd have to pull them down at some point, but right then all I could do was dodge under them. Find the dog. Her fetch was still in the mirror.