by Unknown
Frozen in fear, I watch in horror as Lydia’s face warps and twists, her eyes bulging a hot ember, her mouth gaping wide as if her jaw came unhinged. A low guttural moan seeps from her as she glares at me with those hot, piercing, demon eyes. I can’t come to grips what is happening. My mind is lost in the madness, spiralling into a black void and Lydia is my chauffeur.
The flakka has taken over at this point. I try to fight it but it’s futile. In a desperate act, my induced fear boiling under my flesh forces me to raise my foot and kick Lydia square in her nasty face. She staggers back still on her stomach. In a pouncing stance, she darts towards me. In a swift reaction, I rise from the bed, and I lay another kick with all my weight down on top of her head, again and again, and again. Still, conscious, Lydia squirms underneath me as I continue to boot her skull. I jump back, giving myself escape from the deranged woman on the floor. Lydia now a bloody heap, she continues to writhe on the floor, screaming in hunger. She’s feigning for her fix.
In my back pocket, I pull out a clear plastic bag and scurry over to Lydia, wrapping the bag over her head and pulling tight so the plastic contorts her face. In a fit of rage, I yell at the top of my lungs, tightening my grip as the bag crinkles with every gasp of failed breath. Soon Lydia’s convulsions weaken. Stillness under me. I release my grip, her head hits the floor with a thud. Turning her body over her face is frozen in shock, distorted behind the plastic. Her eyes and mouth wide with terror.
The rage subsides a little as I gaze upon Lydia’s dead body. Sweat trickles down my face, into my mouth, burning my eyes. I wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt.
“Not my first rodeo, you fucking cunt!” I spat spitting on her naked body. I throw my sweater back on, tossing the hood over my head, I make my way to the door when a whisper compels me to stop. The voice is faint, unfamiliar, but stern as it rumbles inside my head. I ignore it and continue towards the door and again, the whisper forces me dead in my tracks. In the doorway, a dark figure stands in my exit. I can’t make out the face. A sudden burst of stale air hits my face forcing me to stagger back a little. The figure glides into the room as if the laws of gravity all of sudden didn’t apply.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?” I mutter trying to come to grips what was happening. The only explanation is the drugs. Nothing this bizarre is at all possible without suffering from a drug-induced psychosis. My rational thinking is faint, but I stay semi-coherent as the figure stands inches from me. I know it’s nothing more than a bad trip. I shake it off, shuffle to the left, and dart towards the door. But, my attempt to free myself from the horrors inside the room comes to a halt. A force beyond my comprehension tugs me by the hood of my sweater cutting of my air way, falling hard against the floor. In a daze, I watch as the ceiling spins, the temperature in room, scorching. Unable to move I lie there in a daze next to my brother's rotting corpse.
Do I deserve this? Is this punishment for what I’ve done to my brother, to the other junkies I’ve set free? Then, the room fades into darkness. No time to answer.
***
After the night in the abandoned house, my life is no longer my own. I’m haunted by images, hallucinations so vivid, I can feel myself becoming unhinged. Psychotic, black tendrils strangle my mind, suffocating my sanity. To keep these demons at bay, I am reliant on narcotics to sooth my rabid train of thoughts. But, I’m afraid they’re having no effect anymore at keeping the visions at bay. The maggot brain has taken me prisoner.
Morbid images flash behind my eyelids strangling my subconscious with acts of depravity that far reach the past the boundaries of normality. My head pulses with a deep thrum, causing his vision to become foggy. With caution, I force myself to stand on shaky legs. Exhaustion already settles just from the thought of walking to the bathroom. I stagger down the hall using the wall for support. I make it to the bathroom just missing my opportunity to face-plant into the toilet. Still in a foggy haze, I place my hands on either side of the sink for stability. As the water runs, I lean closer into the mirror examining the specimen in front of me. The image staring back isn’t me.
The sickly image in the mirror smiles. It knows the inevitability of my fate. I could sense through the hypnotic gaze its plots and schemes. Through a form of telepathy, it speaks to me in my nightmares. Even now staring back at the gaunt face, dark, sunken eyes. Its whispers jumble around in Joel’s head, scrambling his thoughts to the brink of madness. Like little idea bubbles about to burst, releasing a toxic bile into his brain.
It knows I’m weak, helpless, and unable to fight back. Guarded, I lean back with the sense of anger. Wanting whatever this is to leave, to choose another catalyst for its domination. I know my pleas fall on inhuman ears incapable of remorse or empathy. I shake the infuriating thoughts out of my head. I scoop up the frigid water with cupped hands from the faucet and splash my face. I continue to stare at the reflection in the mirror. Contemplating the value of my life and whether to end the suffering. I can’t bring myself to do it.
She visits me again.
I find myself in a dark void, engulfed in a dense fog resembling what appears to be purgatory. Though I’m not dead, the place is cold and empty. The blackness fades as my eyes adjust to the darkness. There’s a dark, distorted silhouette flailing in the distance. With its faint outline, Joel can’t tell if it’s human or creature. Is it manifested from the sins of his actions, here to inflict unimaginable pain and suffering upon him? Squinting, I try to make out the silhouette, but his eyes cannot penetrate through the misty fog. An uneasy feeling floods his body sending thousands of pinpricks through his skin. Still unable to move, it continues to dance closer and closer. My eyes adjust and the dancing shape morphs to fruition. The revealing twists my stomach into a wrenching knot forcing bile into my mouth. My throat burns, the acrid taste, is so overwhelming, I gag again.
A woman dangles in front of me, naked. The naked woman is eviscerated like a pig, her entrails stretch out from the rotting cavity of her midsection. Like a puppet her extremities stretch up extending into the darkness. Who’s the malevolent controller of my torment? She is art. A puppet of beautiful morbidity. Her bluish, gray skin glistens in the damp air. The plastic bag wrapped around her face; her eyes and mouth wide like a putrefied sex doll. Her gaping mouth draws my attention; I can see she’s willing to take me inside of her.
Mesmerized by her terrible beauty, I cannot resist the temptation to know what the dead offer. Caught up at the moment, I find myself stripped of my clothes. My cock tingles from the damp, cold moisture of the fog. Shame, disgust riddles Joel’s body, but arousing me at the same time. Now we are in a deadly embrace. I stare into her distorted, lifeless eyes as we dance to Dmitri Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2. My blood boils with lust. Unable to suppress the urges, my erection presses hard against her inner thigh. Her skin feels rough and clammy like thawed meat. I can’t help myself by this lustful desire.
The absolute taboo of our unbridled lust sends my mind into a whirlwind of depraved ecstasy. I wrap her slick entrails around my engorged member and pleasure myself. The bag expands as a sigh of delight escaped her blackened lips. Aroused by the intestinal foreplay, my body shudders with such intense pleasure. I close my eyes as I transcend to a new level of sexual utopia. I unravel her entrails, not wanting to explode my load too early. I steady myself to plunge deep inside her mutilated snatch. The corners of her mouth turn up with delight.
She’s smiling. She approves.
My necro-fantasy comes to a halt. I wake up in a heap of shame and sweat, my chest heaves with every panting breath. The darkness disguises a figure sitting on the edge of my bed. It erects itself rising to an unnerving height. Holding my breath, I watch as the figure glides towards the door and makes its way down the hall. A battle in my head wages whether to follow or recoil under the sheets, but the debate wins by curiosity. It’s the same figure from the house. Throwing the sheets off, I bounce out of bed and dart down the hall. Hidden in the shadows of the living room stands the un
known figure. The demon's guttural breathing ties my stomach into knots. Thoughts race through my head, trying to figure out why or what or how any of this is happening. It speaks. My ears ring with an intense buzzing thrum inside my skull. Visions of blood, dismemberment, orgies. Bodies contorted in appalling positions with obscure sexual toys race behind my eyes. The pain throbs something terrible; I struggle to keep my eyes open. I fall to my knees in anguish. The dark figure advances closer revealing its identity. The pale, decaying face of my brother.
ONE FOR THE ROAD
Mark Woods
I knew I shouldn’t have gone and smoked that last joint, Jasper thought, driving home down the back country roads that passed through rural Norfolk.
He was coming back from a house party in North Elmham, and though there had been lots of alcohol flowing; he had abstained and not touched a drop, knowing he would be driving home much later, in the wee early hours of the morning, after the party was over.
That hadn’t stopped him having a couple of crafty smokes, though.
As well as all the alcohol, there had also been copious amounts of drugs available at the party in all their various guises. When Jasper had first walked into the living room of the house where the party was being held, a group of people had been sitting in the corner doing Nos – or Nitrous Oxide, otherwise known as Laughing Gas - inhaling the drug from out of brightly coloured balloons.
In the kitchen, a whole queue of people were lining up to take their turns snorting lines of coke – sniffing up the white powder up from the surface of a marble work-top, whilst in the bathroom, Jasper had walked in on two people shooting up – presumably smack, though Jasper hadn’t hung the night before – even contemplating suicide on more than one occasion.
Coming down always seemed to hit him so hard, so as a rule, Jasper had taken to avoiding taking hard drugs unless he knew he would be around people the next day. When he was in the company of others, his come downs never seemed to hit him quite so hard – it was only ever when he was alone, that it felt like he was experiencing the end of the world. It was on days such as these that his come downs would make him feel a million, trillion times worse than any alcohol related hangover ever had and unless you had ever experienced such a feeling yourself, there was no way to describe it - it was simply impossible to put into words just how low the after-effects could make you feel in any possible way that non-drug users would understand.
You really had to be there, see it and experience it for yourself, and Jasper thought, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
And so, last night, he’d stuck to weed.
The last couple of joints he’d smoked had apparently been laced with a new legal high that users were calling Ennui. The government was currently trying to ban Ennui, and get it off the streets, because of the devastating side effects it had on those who used it, but so far had been largely unsuccessful.
Though nowhere near as lethal as the street drugs, Flakka or Krokodil, Ennui nonetheless provided users with a similarly intense high, the likes of which few other ‘legal’ highs could match. It made you feel like you were invulnerable, some kind of superhero – quite simply it made you feel like a million dollars, and some said it even gave you visions of Godhood, much like LSD.
The only downfall, much like Krokodil, was that the drug had been accused of causing necrosis, and that the come down was supposedly always, always, a bitch.
It was also supposed to increase feelings of paranoia in users and make them feel as though they were being persecuted, and in the last few months, there had been several, quite public, recent documented examples of people going absolutely stark raving nuts after a night spent taking Ennui.
But, allegedly, it was all worth it.
When mixed with weed, in a joint or bong, someone had recently discovered many of these side effects became dulled.
So it was that Jasper had first come to experience Ennui last night.
“Take a hit of this,” a friend and fellow user of his said to him last night at the party, passing him a joint. “It’s like no other smoke you’ve ever tried, trust me. This shit will make you feel gooooood!”
And so Jasper sparked up and just as promised, loved every single minute of the experience. So much so that he had gone on to smoke at least two more joints laced with Ennui.
He was beginning to regret it now though.
The predicted paranoia, associated with the drug, was already kicking in.
The car behind him had its headlights shining on full.
Jasper was also convinced it was following him.
He had already pulled down the shade on his rear view mirror to dull the brightness and shield his eyes slightly, but it obviously wasn’t working.
The headlights behind him were so very, very bright.
Jasper had already put on his hazard warning lights, and indicated right to try and give the person behind him a very subtle hint to overtake him, but all to no avail.
Still the car behind him dogged him on his journey and refused either to pass or turn off one of the various side-roads that lead off the back country road he was on.
Maybe the guy behind was just going the same way, but Jasper’s paranoid mind refused to accept this.
He was sure the driver behind him was following him; he was sure of it, certain. He did not know why, and could fathom out no reason other than that the guy behind him was an undercover cop in a plain, unmarked car, and that Jasper had done something to make him suspicious whilst driving on his journey home, and that now, the cop was just waiting for him to make another mistake before he pulled him over, but that was just the after-effects of the weed he’d smoked earlier talking, right? Right?
Jasper’s inner voice refused to answer.
It was too busy trying to force him to concentrate on driving sensibly and not arouse any more suspicion.
The car had been following him for several miles – if it had been going to pull him over, surely it would have done by now?
There was only one way to determine whether the guy behind him was an undercover cop, Jasper decided.
So he sped up.
If the guy was a cop, let him give chase, Jasper thought. Let’s make this fucker work for his arrest!
Jasper put his toe down and put his pedal to the metal.
Instantly, he felt his car pull forward at speed as the accelerator kicked in.
Jasper knew these roads like the back of his hands, better even – it was time to see how well the cop knew them.
Without indicating, Jasper took a hard left down a small road he knew was coming up, waiting all the time for sirens and flashing lights to kick in on the car behind.
Well, not sirens as there were laws now about sounding your alarms at three o’clock in the morning when decent people were all asleep in bed, but lights at any rate.
Nothing.
The car, looking as though for a second it might continue on the main back roads, suddenly swerved and turned down the side-road behind him.
Following him.
Shit, Jasper thought. He is following me.
Not definitely, his inner voice spoke up – maybe it was just coincidence.
Jasper took another hard left at the last minute, and then a hard right.
Both times, the car behind followed him – a little slower, sure, because the driver was obviously not so familiar with these roads, but still following.
Shit, shit, shit – just pull me over already, Jasper thought. He could probably pull over, but if he did, Jasper was worried it might be the last thing he ever did. He didn’t know why he thought that, he just did.
His petrol was getting low - he could drive round these back roads, taking his pursuer around and around in circles for a while, but he couldn’t do it all night, morning, whatever.
At some point he was going to have to lose the guy behind him or stop. Otherwise he’d be stopping alright, just not of his own volition.
Jasper figured he had just one chance left
– one last manoeuvre he could pull. If that didn’t work, he had no more hope of losing the guy behind him.
Jasper sped up once more, really flooring his car now and causing it to rock and almost threaten to roll over as he spun it around the tight, dark bends of the back roads he was on. There was a straight stretch coming up where the only turnings off were into farmer’s fields.
It was into one of these that he turned now.
There was a large, heavy tractor and trailer that always sat in this field that had been there for as long as he could remember. The tractor was some kind of combo combine/ tractor thing – he didn’t know, he wasn’t a fucking farmer for fuck’s sake – but certainly big enough to hide behind if he was quick and the driver behind him didn’t see him turning off and pulling into the field.
With any luck, the driver behind would come around the corner, hit the straight, and have no idea where his target had gone.
Unless you knew they were there, many of the turnings off into farmer’s fields were invisible at night to the untrained eye - and with a cloudy sky blocking any moonlight that might have lit up the roads and betrayed where he had gone - that was exactly what Jasper was counting on.
Quickly, pulling in behind the combine, Jasper turned off his engine and killed the lights.
Then he sat and waited.
And waited.
He heard a car speeding past the concealed turning he had just pulled into, and breathed a sigh of relief he had not even realised he was holding.
Gently, he wound down his driver’s window.
His car was old, and still had the kind of windows you needed to wind down by hand, not electronic ones - hell, his car still had a cassette player in it and did not even have an auxiliary port to plug in his mobile, talk about behind the times – but that was the way he liked it.