Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Three: Demon Dances

June, 1996.

Light.

Dark.

Light.

Dark.

Many lights and darks had passed. They were stacked one on another, never ending.

During the light I hid in the darkness, in the cool shade of a tiny room, the mirror long shattered because I couldn't stand the sight of myself. At least when I was coming down. When I was up, it didn't matter. The little broken shards of my reflection didn't disturb me, even when my face distorted, zooming in and out.

A pleasant, floating vertigo, warmth, then I'd fall asleep.

Minutes, hours, days later I'd awaken, slumped in the same dark room.

Black. Everything was black. Floor, tub, sink, toilet, walls. A dim red light was all I needed. All I wanted.

When I was hot, nauseated, and sick, the inky tile was cool, soothing, and healing as long as the jagged, smooth shards didn't slice my skin, as long as I ignored the stench of stale piss and puke that permeated the room, the puddles and droplets in which I lay.

If they could see me now they'd understand. There's nothing glamorous in this curse. Nothing opulent. Nothing pretty. Nothing to be hailed as grand.

They wouldn't tolerate me, much less want to see me at my low.

Those were the times I didn't want to see myself, either. When I itched, when it became unbearable and I knew I had to wait, when I would drag myself on my belly, combing the floor for any tiny remainder, questioning whether the minuscule shard was what I craved, or dirt, or, small pebble, or dried vomit.

And dying. Figuratively, literally dying, for the five short rings of my doorbell that signified impending relief.

I'd walk, my wobbling limbs limp, or sometimes I'd crawl depending on my sickness, to the backdoor to raise the little frog in the empty pot filled with soil to retrieve the medicine beneath it.

The medicine I knew was damning me as much as it was my only savior.

During the silvery dark I could leave. I could leave for food, for cigarettes, for booze. I could use it for safety because I knew there was no risk of running into him. It was too late, and he was early these days. Every day he was early. When the dark was early, he would sleep. When the dark was late, turning to light, he would awaken, and I couldn't risk it.

Sometimes in the morning light I would hear knocks. He ran in the orange sun, in the dawn and dew and fresh anew, and I knew it was him.