Warp Speed

Chapter 1

Warp speed. That's the only way to describe it. The syringe my escape: tie the arm—3, find the vein—2, insert the needle—1. Blast off.

Star Trek portrays it best. Speeding through space. The world flashed past like an out-of-focus fun house mirror —no concept of time, of self. Then, things slow down just enough for you to make out an object. Concentrating hard on focusing, just long enough to see a form of reality.

The object is a TV, sporting a wire hanger aerial. I'm in a motel room. Heavy eyelids threaten to pull me back under, but I fight it. No. I need to know where I am. My hand feels like lead as I lift it to my face—it's wet, with sweat, or maybe tear-soaked. I brush damp hair from my eyes, but it doesn't help. My vision stays blurred, and the room is a swirling haze. I am on my back, thankful that it's a mattress beneath me and not the cold, hard concrete that I often wake to. I give myself an internal pep talk to move; I begin to pull myself up but freeze when a voice breaks the silence; I'm not alone.

The voice is unfamiliar, but that isn't a surprise to me. The speech is rough and broken up with a deep phlegmy smoker's cough; it's coming closer. Before I can focus on his face, he's on me, turning me and pressing my face into the bed, the flowered piling bedspread all I see. I count the petals. Anything not to be here.

The rough voice is behind me; his pungent smell of cigarettes, stale beer, and week-old sweat engulfs me. His hands spread my cheeks; the sound of phlegm being dislodged fills the room before I feel the warm, wet spit hit its target. I close my eyes - It's time to continue on at warp speed, time to find a different reality.

I'm unsure if I was asleep or awake, but the banging came as a rude shock. My eyelids scrape open, dry as sandpaper. Light floods the room, dust particles waltzing in the sunlight. BANG. I jolt up; someone's at the door. My legs wobble, unsteady, as if they've forgotten how to stand. I am naked. I pull the flowered bedspread around me and stumble towards the knock. The door is slightly ajar, and I pull it the rest of the way. Fresh air burns my throat and fills my lungs. I cough.

A man in a turban stands in the doorway, his broken English sharp and insistent. "You leave. Now."

I barely register his words, staring past him, trying to anchor myself. "Okay," I mumbled, stepping back into the room. But he follows, tugging the blanket around me. His voice grows louder, more guttural. Words dissolve into grunts and gestures as he marches through the room, sweeping my things on to the balcony with angry, efficient hands.

I follow the river of clothing, watching a shoe pass by, scooting through the railing and falling to the ground a level below.

My mind begins to clear - the rough-voiced John, my money. I re-enter the room, peering around for my earnings; the man shoos me away. I ignore his actions and continue to look. He's tugging on the blanket again. "Give me this," he orders. I asked for my dress, which laid by his foot. He bends and takes the dress in his hands; he pauses and glares at me. "Give me first," he smiles, revealing his yellow decaying teeth. I refuse. "Does dirty whore have money to pay for room?" I don't. Something in his eyes tells me he doesn't care about the answer. He shuts the door, his breath quickening, hands rubbing together with sick anticipation.

I let the blanket slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor. There it lay with my dignity and pride.

This time, there is no haze to enter, only the harsh reality of life. I am numb. The pain is there, but I no longer care. Even now, as this man thrust into me, I will not wince. If I feel nothing, he can take nothing. The drugs make it easier. Like the chicken and the egg, I'm not sure what came first: the drugs or the need to be numb. Either way, it has to lead me here.

He watches me as I dress. I wanted to ask him to use the bathroom, but I already knew his answer. I collected the rest of my things and am still scanning the room for my fee from the last John. There is nothing. I swear under my breath, I'd been ripped off again.

My worn bag still lay in the doorway. I, like a turtle, carry my home on my back. I hurry to stuff my clothes in and close the zip as far as it will go; the sleeve of a sweater emerges from the remaining opening like a plant twisting to reach the sunlight. I head downstairs to rescue the renegade shoe. Bending sends a sharp pain through my stomach.

I long to be far away from this motel and this moment. I long to be numb.

I stand on the street. "The Paradise Motel" sign looms over me; the P and A letters have fallen off, leaving a dirt-free void of where they had once lived. It reminds me of the chalk outlines left at murder scenes, a sight not unfamiliar to the area.

There is a rundown garage located across the road. A shiny new pump stands alone; like a rhinestone bedazzled on an old shirt, the attempted makeover had failed. I make my way to the side of the garage and try the handle of the toilet. Locked.

The front door to the garage cracks open, despite the noise, the overweight attendant doesn't look away from the soap on the TV. The shop is small and stuffy; the small fan behind the counter does little to help. The shelves are sparse, the few items that remain are coated in a thick blanket of dust. I approach the counter and ask for the toilet key, the overweight attendant breaks her focus just long enough to grab the key and cast judgment over me before returning to her show. "You better not OD in there," is the last thing I hear as the door shuts. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

The toilet reeks of mildew and stale urine, a humid relic of its endless visitors. No windows, just the fluorescent light buzzing above the mirror—one tube burnt out, the other flickering defiantly.

The tap's rust resembles dried blood. Its wounds crack open with a tortured screech that rattles the pipes—and me. Water sputters out, dark and muddy, before clearing.

I cup it in my hands and watch it escape over the edges of my palms, scrambling to freedom down the drain. I wait until it cools, then splash my face. It smells metallic but tastes salty, like tears. The mirror is streaked with grime, reflecting a distorted version of myself—like the funhouse glass I can't escape. Mascara tears leave tracks down my cheeks. I look this stranger in the eye. Hollow eyes stare back, empty where dreams once lived. Gone was any trace of before. I'm filled with the feeling you get when you see someone on the street who looks familiar, but you just can't place and don't trust yourself to say hi.

How did she get here? The thought doesn't matter anymore—the better question.

How much longer can she go on?