Beneath the Ecstasy.

February 24, 2010
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Rebellion, escape, and social bonding are all motivators for substance use. Loss of control and a promise of joyous rapture appeal to every wayward son. Logic sneaks into his mind, questioning faithful resolution being found in chemical havens. Sadly, it is a lost cause; the “yes” attitude of a free spirit will rise victorious tonight.


Darkness engulfs the sunset as the moon glares into unstable souls. Norah walks with her friends, she forgets her life for tonight; she forgets a life cast in mystery to the others. They think of her as fun, energetic, and charismatic, always leading the pack. She indeed possesses these qualities, but only when there are people deserving of her happiness. She walks with confidence, head held high, laughing and joking with them. Glowing with encouragement and joy, she inspires the others with anticipation of a fun night.


They flood into a basement, small and unfinished, adequate seating for all, though cluttered and confined. Everyone sits, speaking of random topics and pointless chatter. Norah joins in conversation at appropriate times, laughs, alters attention, almost too perfectly. She is staging her actions while her mind wanders. Her thoughts rest on another friend, one that’s been pleading with her for the promise of good decisions and behavior. Guilt creeps into her heart, but it isn’t strong enough to stop her.



Vodka finds his way into the scene, strong turpentine scent awaiting recognition. He slides into her hands, weighing the burdens, and full of dark magic. Norah grips the lid, metal warm against her finger prints, her sole identity. Slowly the threads are disjointed, cap lost and forgotten, useless as pocket lint. His soul slips from his body into a red plastic cup; demons reside in his rapture. She takes a breath and shoots him back, drowning in his influence. More bottles are passed, double shots downed and inhibitions lost. Her head begins to feel heavy, but Vodka has done his job.


Norah laughs in the musty air of shallow friendship. She dances in the dark of her newfound blindness, stumbles in the ecstasy of overzealous drunks. Everyone beams with flush faced delight, joy escaping their mouths and movements. They are watching her, enticed by her humor, on the verge of jealousy for her carefree eyes shimmering in the low light. Norah’s phone is forgotten in this loss of self. It is lying on the floor, possessing words from a true friend against the destruction and escape.


Billowing smoke from joints and highs are sought outside. Migrating from the basement, they pass a joint around; as it deteriorates to a roach, they light up another. This is their solution to achieving the bliss Norah possesses. However, she is sitting inside alone with her friend’s words on her mind. She had made a promise only to drink; drugs were out of the question, pending anger and disappointment. Norah picks up her phone, dialing, ready to apologize for calling, but celebrating that she hadn’t gone outside. She slurs into the answering machine, a plea for support and pride in her drug free body.


Morning floods into her window and warm welcome crusades against last night’s failure. She remembers the past not many can see; she always will. Only broken pieces of tracks and fragments from last night trace the edges of her mind. Party mates praise her and relish in all their fun. They trade stories of drunken stupor and laugh the sickness off. Their motivation is rebellion and society, and for her, that is only part of it. She is running. Her true friends know, and others probably never will. Now she has to face another day of the same, and mend tethered ties from last night’s call. She is not only hurting herself, but breaking angels’ hearts. One day she will outgrow this method of destruction. For now, she is a paper tiger, strong and resilient at sight, but shrinking away at the first sign of rain.





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