I knock on the door. I knew this would be the last time I would come here. I wish he’d never shown me this place, it’s become harder to hide. For the past month no day has been special to me, they're all dedicated to this house with asbestos fencing. This house with the primer coating on the doors. With the cars that drift by lazily. Hanging on his front porch hiding from the heavy rain and I wish he would just answer the door already because I’m running out of time today and need to be somewhere later. I’m just getting this stuff now for later. I wont take any till she is fast asleep, till it’s like 3 or 4am. I’ll sit there on my phone and wait till her breathing is shallow and rhythmic and slowly creak the door open and slowly pick my pack up and slowly close the door making sure the knob is turned to be open the whole way so there isn’t a click when it closes and then slowly head into the backyard, into my private sanctuary where the cold grey light is a comforting blanket of static.
I hear someone choking up and coughing inside — the cold makes my chest hurt — I knock again with added emotion and the door opens conspiratorially.
“What?”
The choking is loud now and echoing out onto the street.
“It’s ‘John’. I have cash ready.”
The door opens and I can finally see the source of the choking, some ratty looking guy sitting on the couch holding a glass pipe, choking hard and coughing up.
“Red hot Brillo in your throat, right?”
It’s this stuff the crackheads use to filter their pipes or something, it can get loose while you’re breathing in and, burning hot, get caught up in your throat. The guy just keeps on coughing.
“Gram for 350, right?”
I don’t think about how much money I’ve spent in the past month on this stuff, I’m not too worried about the future anyway. Walking with my eyes locked to the sidewalk. Not letting my gaze meet the homeless peoples eyes selling art on the street. Smoking a cigarette in front of an ATM in the rain, shitty lighters make your thumb hurt, still bruised purple.
“Yeah.”
He goes round to a different room and I’m left standing there awkwardly watching this crackhead choke on Brillo.
“You alright man?”
He doesn’t reply to me in any way. I consider whistling but decide against it. I get my 350 dollars of crisp Australian money ready. I always make sure to only bring the cash I need to make the purchase and nothing else, these guys don't care about reputation and would willingly take any extra money they smell on me. I’ve been sick, shaking with excitement since I got the money and made the final decision to get some more for tonight, tonight — fuck, I have plans in 2 hours. I’m meant to be going to dinner with my girl. It’s an important dinner. An important dinner with my girl.
The dealer is back.
“Here.”
I hand him the money and we both say thanks and I say I’ll vouch him and he doesn’t reply and out into the rain I’ve returned. The bus is cozy, the rain is thick on the roof above. a heavy rattle. People call them crackheads but it’s actually pretty difficult to find crack in Australia. What that guy was probably smoking was crystal meth. Due to Australia being an island and all, it’s hard to import things. Even if you cook the rocks yourself the cocaine itself is probably, like, 80% meth, or even fentanyl nowadays. Although it’s harder to get away with I’m sure even the stuff I’ve got is cut, that’s why I never IV, it’s not worth the risk. I’ll never IV it.
Sandwich bag with honeycomb powder sops against my jean leg. Far off the city buildings are enveloped in mist, a bright full moon is starting to rise and shine off the river as the bus passes by. The place I need to get to is in the city. I just need to get into the city. But its so easy to just use this stuff, but if I use it I won’t want to do anything else and even though I tell myself it will only take half an hour I know I won’t be able to stop after that and I’ll snort the whole bag down and spend another day in my dream — how long has it been since I’ve been really sober? How long does it take for this stuff to totally leave the body? There is a rainbow sheen over the bricks outside the transport station, the oil leaking from the little transport buggies mixes with the rain and coats the flagstones in iridescence.
My phone buzzes. My hand massages the wet bag in my pocket. I am walking away from where I am meant to go. I am walking aimlessly through the city streets and it’s raining and the Friday night is bustling and the street lights and bar lights are all flashing. My phone buzzes again but I don’t want to look at the messages. I keep walking street after street.
On a rock under a lonely overpass. I can see the mossy rockside of this side of the river and there is a fisherman with a flashlight and traditional yellow poncho. Probably looking for bull sharks. I remember doing that as a teenager. My hands are shaking, I am frozen and wet. My phone, my cracked phone, is low on battery. I haven’t checked the notifications. They died off over time. I find a flat surface and line the gold honey powder on the rock and use a coke can tab to roll a 5 dollar bill I found nice and tight. Pain shoots up along the back of my head. Burning nostrils, burning behind my eyes. Feel like snot is stuck in my brain cavities. My phone comes up in light for one more time. I am melting now. I look at the screen and truly start to fall.
Falling endless in a dark night sky, the rain and the falling comets and the warmth of all reality. I can stay here forever, and I know I will. Nothing could ever bring me down from this. Drifting out under the overpass into a purple velvet allcolour, a starry void where everything apart of me comes to be as one of everything else, everything else. I will never come down from this. Falling endless in a dark night sky, the rain and the falling comets. Nothing could ever bring me down from this. Drifting out under the overpass. The moon is warming the heat under my eyes. My mind is connected with the moon. A fisherman shines his light in my eyes. No one will ever bring me down from this.