Sex, Drugs & No Idea

1: Morning Glory - Hollywood, California

Jesus Christ, another ride on the MDMA-powered time machine.

Charlie was woken by the sunshine––crimson, as it permeated the blood vessels of his closed eyelids––fading to black. He chalked that up to daylight, though it could've just as easily been the passing of car headlights.

He thought he might've been lying in a gutter––a clichéd first. He opened his gritty eyes. Above him, in the otherwise clear sky, was a large cloud. It was thick and grey and gilt with white along it's thin, ragged edges.

Daytime.

Charlie's mum called the shit you get in the corner of your eyes in the morning sleepy-dust. That's what she'd told Charlie and his sisters that it was called all through their childhoods. Sleepy-dust. Charlie liked it. It was cute. It was a lie, but it was endearing. It wasn't until recently that he'd been told that it was a mixture of mucus, blood and skin cells, and dust. That's the truth. His mother wouldn't have known that. Lies; they were good for covering up ignorance and ugliness.

He hauled himself into a sitting position, grunting with the effort, rubbed his face and licked his lips a few times, and pulled some of his hair out of his mouth. His mouth felt like some sort of small rodent had crawled into it and died. He attributed that to red wine, and lots of it.

Charlie felt around in his pockets for the cigarettes he shouldn't have had, but knew he would. He pulled out his phone and the screen was smashed and he couldn't remember if he'd done that last night or the night before. He was philosophical about it; it was broken and that was that. The when was irrelevant.

It was seven in the morning and Charlie took an easy solace––and after his recent, prolonged and continuing spell of self-loathing, he grasped at every silver lining he could get his shaking hands on––in the fact that he was up and about quite early, if not in the most sophisticated of circumstances. He extracted one of the cigarettes and a lighter and lit it, looked around and took stock of his location. Luckily––or depressingly, depending on your point of view––he'd come to on the swathe of grass that fronted his little apartment building off of Melrose Avenue.

At least I don't have far to get home, Charlie thought.

There's a bottle of pinot gris in the fridge, his ever helpful brain supplied straight after.

What the fuck're you doing? It's been three months. This isn't bringing her back. There's no one here to see this.

Ah, The Grieving Partner; drinking too much and assuming the life of a recluse, pushing those who are trying to help away. Charlie found myself not knowing whether he was still genuinely aching for Sophia, or if he was acting the way he was because there were certain societal expectations he was subconsciously trying to fulfil. After almost a quarter of a year was there still a gap where she'd been? Or was it all a gap? Was there anything left inside of him? There must've been something in there that he was trying to drown with all the booze and hate and drugs.

He put his head in his hands and screwed his eyes shut. Fought down the urge to scream at the overwhelming cynicism he felt at the whole world and at life and at himself, at the pessimism that crawled like acid up the back of his throat.

Was there a prescribed length of time for mourning? Was there a normal period before you just bloody well get on with things?

As he closed up the pack of cigarettes, Charlie noticed a rattling coming from the bottom. He tipped the pack upside down and, along with a scattering of loose tobacco, out dropped two small, clear capsules full of a crystalline brown powder. MDMA––molly, as it was known in the States. Suddenly, the mammoth gap in his memory, which he hadn't even bothered to attempt to try and fill, was explained.