Over some eclipsed and warped time span, we’d grown disconnected, Wally and I. We ceased to communicate; verbally or otherwise. Scoring by myself proved harder and harder and I was becoming weaker and weaker, barely able to move. On some occasion someone would leave some drugs behind, or die while trying to get off. It was during that time that I started roaming the streets, and ventured into even shadier parts of Hell. The other side was darker, scarier. The streets were littered with broken dreams. People didn’t even look human. Every building had been condemned; broken windows, knocked out doors. The monochromatic landscape was eerie; comforting and frightening. I managed to find some broken furniture, a salvageable lamp, random items that could be fixed and turned into something. I desperately needed more money and was willing to surrender my body again, as disgusted as I was with the idea, I was willing. The only problem was, there was nobody buying. All the whores that had littered my block had long since vanished. They were either dead, kidnapped, or had moved to another corner. Everyone seemed to disappear, and then it was just me and Wally. Alone in a suffocating cocoon of apathy. We'd sit huddled inside ourselves, shuddering from the obscene cold and we’d sneak glances at each other. Steal an emotion and writhe through the pain. I began to lose myself.
On rare occasions the drugs would enhance all the ugliness that spread through me. Like twisted and faithful scanners, they would search my body and mind and pull out all the awfulness to the surface. I hated those days. I hated feeling. No, I hated feeling bad; knowing that my every molecule was composed of evil and slime. On those days, finding my reflection wasn’t enough to find me, it wasn’t enough to save me; the mirror was no longer my ally, my salvation. I wondered if Wally felt that way too. We had become strangers, two foreign bodies trying not to bump into each other in the night. He was just another zombie roaming space, trying to find his soul. Or something. I longed to be redeemed. I so desperately needed a change, a real change that would shift my entire focus. There was one single thought that spun in my head. Like a crystal marble trying to glow in the mist. REHAB. It was a razor that cut through the grey matter and echoed in my head. It terrified me, though. The idea. The simple concept of reaching out, of actual change, of possibility. Extending my vile existence outside Hell’s last acre. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, but then there would be waves of calm and silence and that word would pop up and fire works would go off behind my eyes.
Two giant pokers ran through my face, through my eyes. My spine was a field of needles ablaze. I felt claustrophobic in my own skin and there was no air. I was sweating; shifting from one foot to the other. And again, I had no recollection of how I’d gotten here, or where I was. There was something in my hand: it was solid, but moved. It was Wally, and we were walking. Fast. In a frenzy. I kept stumbling over myself and Wally kept tugging at me. He was hurting me. I looked around and caught fragmented sights of our surrounding. We hurried down a narrow street, dark; illuminated by random lights from the buildings up above. Every so often I would see bodies. Some in motion, others catatonic. There was no purpose to our madness and I was tired.
“Where are we going?” I asked out of breath. Wally didn’t reply, he just yanked my arm, violently.
“Wally! Where are we going?!” I said again, desperate and on the verge of tears. He didn’t even look at me.
“Stop!” I pulled my arm out of his grasp and stopped like dead weight in my place.
“Where are we?” I pleaded. I looked at him, and he stood still, his back still to me. His head bowed down. His shoulders moved up and down, he was breathing hard.
“Just come on.” He whispered. I refused to move, my eyes burning a hole into his back. His head turned to the side, but he wasn’t looking at me.
“Wally,” my voice full of hesitation and fear. In all our years together, I’ve never been afraid of him. Sometimes, when my head was messed up and I was tweaking, I’d stay away, or when he was in the midst of one of his raging fits I’d think twice about coming near, but I’ve never FEARED him. I never thought of him as someone that would hurt me.
“Fuck! Just come on, already!” he turned and stormed towards me, grabbed my shoulders and squeezed and shook me. He was out of focus; everything was shaking around me.