Dead Glass

The anticipation is so sharp it is like broken glass in Jonah’s mouth.

The needle hovers above his arm, stretched flat and bruised. His vein trembles.

Closer, closer, yet unbearably far.

At last the syringe, long and sleek like a pale snake, punctures his skin with its needle-tongue. The venom of meth slithers into his veins. Jonah gasps, as though at the edge of orgasm, and releases a deep breath. As the high submerges him in a thick cloud, his body crumples and unwinds inside.

As it overtakes him, Jonah relaxes, his limbs collapsing and untethering around him. His face, usually so hard and angular, now looks almost angelic, awash with the pangs of euphoria, despite the bursts of teenage acne. The invisible shards of glass in his mouth melt away into a sweet, hot liquid mess trailing down his throat. He moans. The beautiful agony gluing his eyes shut abates for a moment; he cracks them open.

Strobe lights dance above him, their white rivulets shooting through the musty air, their beat matching that of his pulse. The monsters cling to the corners of his eyes, lurking in the grimy windows, staring at him with silver button eyes and razor grins. Their claws, sharp and glittering, tap against the glass: an ominous staccato. Their labored breaths--audible even from here on the thin, filthy mattress--create clouds of fog on the glass.

A strange energy, brief and tremulous like a butterfly caught in a net, courses through him. His teeth--what is left of them, cracked and yellowed--grind and chatter. They clack together like ice cubes. His Adam’s apple throbs, large and prominent like a ticking bomb lodged in his throat. His heart races. Within him implodes a more familiar energy--a pompous rage prepared to topple any mountain, to crumble any wall, to dismember any body.

As quickly as the high comes, it is gone--nothing but a brief respite from a hellish terrain.

Releasing a long sigh betraying finality, Jonah falls from the euphoric heights. The strobe lights die away. The steady rapid pulse recedes. The monsters vanish.

He is miserable yet again.

The high of the meth is unlike anything else. After the jab of the needle, it is a sharp, tantalizing sensation. In one nimble motion, he emerges from his body, gliding into the ether and floating there, indifferently studying the marred shell that lay beneath him.

It is an experience--it is the experience--that he lives for.

Without the lights of meth to blind him, Jonah is forced to see himself as he truly is, to feel himself honestly--and he despises it. With the high he is lithe and graceful. Without the high he is torn and ugly. With the high he is a ghost, faceless and weightless, ignorant of past and future. Without the high he is dragged back to the ground, burdened and bereaved.

The bitter wind seeps through the cracked walls of the abandoned warehouse, tingling Jonah’s bones. As he lies on the mattress, beads of sweat trickle down his emaciated frame. Bruises stain his skin red and purple. He stares at his right arm, at his favorite place to inject the meth--the hollow crevice where hurt and memory reside. Upon this arm, on his right bicep, there is a tattoo of a nautical star--each of the five points cleaved in two, the black half stark and cruel against the white.

He cannot bear the sight of the tattoo. It is a reminder of a life scarred with rejection, a life where pain was more acceptable than pleasure, for pain was expected. Jonah sighs and pulls down his sleeve, hiding the tattoo and its blaze of black and white.

A pang rattles in the pit of his stomach. He realizes what he needs.

Meth.

God, I need meth.

I need it now.

Invigorated by the fierce determination of an addict, Jonah springs to his feet and prepares for a drug run. If he believed in God, he would thank Him for the foresight of bringing along a coat when his parents evicted him six months ago. But then, Jonah no longer believes in God. So instead, he merely grabs his coat and flees the warehouse, emerging into a cold blast of autumn.

Jonah shivers as he walks down the empty street. Puddles of dank water dot the road, which has not been repaved for years. The concrete of the sidewalk is cracked beyond repair, dividing each slab into chunks and slivers. The dumpsters overflow with foul garbage. A faint scent of smoke pervades, mingling in the frigid air with the distant, familiar blare of city traffic. The wings of pigeons flutter in a hush, and stray cats yowl in the dark alleys.

This part of the city has long been abandoned, its rampant penury forgotten in the wake of wealthier families and businesses. The walls and doors of the houses crumble and buckle, all uniformly defaced by a barrage of graffiti.

Jonah hunches his shoulders and quickens his gait. This area is not safe now. But then, he knows it is never safe. Even the warehouse in which he lives is not safe, though he tries to convince himself there is some imitation of safety within its rotting walls.

An expanse of cloud stretches across the sky like a dull iron blanket. The trees lining the street are nearly naked, their long, spindly branches cutting into the skyline. Only a few desperate leaves still cling to the trees’ branches, shuddering in a whirlwind.

The air is cool and crisp, so much so that it hurts to inhale deeply, stinging Jonah’s nostrils. It is only mid-autumn, but this year, winter bares its fangs early. The cold breeze bites at Jonah’s neck and his ears, but it does not entirely bother him. The numbness is a welcome sensation, a brief placebo similar to the high.

But not as powerful as the high. Never.

He wants to find Nick, his favorite drug dealer. But he does not have the money to buy meth from Nick. Nick is not nice when Jonah does not have money--especially since he still owes him three hundred dollars from his last few scores.

But right now, he is not following the dangerous path to Nick’s headquarters. Instead, he is heading for the small neighborhood of those living on the edge of poverty, clinging to the semblance of a normal life.

At last Jonah reaches his destination, a place where a foul stench does not linger in the air, where the houses are puny but clean. Finding a familiar apartment building, he enters, wandering through the decrepit lobby, climbing the worn steps to the second floor, at last standing before Apartment 204. In a silly attempt at courage, Jonah takes a deep breath. He raps his knuckles upon the door.

After a moment, the door gradually swings open to reveal Owen. His features are strong and defined, as though chiseled into marble, but cracked and weathered marble. His eyes, a dank blue, widen as he takes in the sight of Jonah, who he has known for ten years.

Owen is briefly speechless. How is he to react? He has attempted, numerous times, to cut Jonah out of his life, like Jonah’s own parents have done. But he is weak. The sight of Jonah’s face, the sound of his voice, the subtle blade in his gaze, never fail to send Owen reeling with the sharp clarity of a fresh wound. Today is no exception--he can feel it in his gut, burning like an ulcer.

“Owen.” Jonah’s voice is small, his gaze sheepish.

Owen’s lips curl downwards, his brow furrows; but his eyes shine. He knows Jonah is sick, that he needs help, but Owen cannot help feeling something like happiness with him.

“My God. Jonah. Get in here.”

The apartment is well-kept but cramped. Light permeates through the dark green curtains of the window, casting a drab shadow upon the room.

The desire for meth and the desire for contact with Owen--nearly identical in scope and strength--devour Jonah’s insides like a wildfire. He stares at the floor, shifting his weight awkwardly, refusing to meet Owen’s gaze.

Owen crosses his arms over his chest. It is a defensive gesture that Jonah knows well.

Owen chews his bottom lip. “What’s going on, Jonah?”

Silence falls, suspended between them like an invisible wraith.

“You need something, don’t you?”

Jonah’s heart is in his throat, pounding and struggling like a trapped animal. It hurts that Owen believes Jonah is only here because he needs something. It hurts even more because it is true. He stares at his shoes, nearly falling apart from overuse.

Owen exhales, a short, clipped sound. “I can’t take this much longer, Jonah. I know we tried so hard before… But it didn’t work. You don’t want it to work, I think. You can’t get beyond what’s happened in the past… And I can’t help you if you won’t take my help.”

“I-I want your help, Owen--”

Owen lets out a snort of mirthless laughter, barely masking the hurt in his voice. “You said that the first time. And the second time, and the third. But it never happens, Jonah… It never happens. You always go back to the damn meth!”

Jonah shudders at the word, the word that he loves. Such a hideous word for a thing of beauty. He tries to block out Owen’s wounded voice. The unspoken memories swirl between them in a long, silent pause, until at last Owen breaks it:

“Hey!” His voice is hoarse and guttural, rising from the pool of despair in his throat. His hands clench into fists; his fingernails bite into his palms. “Can’t you even look at me?!”

Jonah squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, wincing in the throes of phantom pain. The addiction roils inside him. The creature tumbles in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at his innards. The star tattoo on his arm pulses and burns. His favorite place to inject itches. His pupils dilate and swivel. His teeth grind. He needs meth, and soon.

Slowly--painfully slowly, like blood oozing from a wound--Jonah raises his weary head, meeting Owen’s gaze. The muscles in Jonah’s face twitch involuntarily.

A revelation sears through Owen. In Jonah’s mud-brown eyes, smoldering beneath heavy lids, he sees the addiction ruling his life. He sees the remnants of meth in his eyes, glinting in the light like shards of glass. He sees the hollowness, but he also sees a little boy, faint and distant.

This glimpse of humanity, cruel and fleeting, cuts through Owen to the bone, springing tears into his tired eyes and slicing his bandaged heart afresh. As his vision blurs, he retreats from Jonah. He cannot bear the sight of such a violent, fragile beauty.

A frightening realization dawns upon Owen. He knows he will do anything in his power to keep Jonah with him, or at least near him. Without the meth to keep him sane, Jonah will die…

Jonah needs to say something, anything--or the silence will devour him. “I… I need money, Owen.”

Owen closes his eyes and sighs. Unbeknownst to Jonah, a single tear crawls down Owen’s cheek. He wipes it away roughly, hastily, as though embarrassed. He stifles the sob choking in his throat. “O-Okay,” he says, clearing his voice. “How much?”

“…Three hundred.”

Owen knows how Jonah will use the money. Jonah knows this as well--he does not fabricate an excuse for the sake of “decency.”

Money is dear for Owen, but he lets the crisp hundred dollar bills slip easily from his fingers into Jonah’s hungry grasp. He knows meth will destroy Jonah, but for the moment, it keeps him alive. Owen is willing to take the risks, to face the consequences.

“Owen, I… I want to--”

“God, just leave, Jonah. I can’t see you for a while. It’s…too much.”

Jonah stares at the floor. His face burns. His tattoo throbs harder. His pulse thuds loudly in his head.

Standing at the threshold of the tiny apartment, Jonah pauses. He knows that he is too far gone from his parents, but he is painfully close to Owen. Maybe, just maybe, there is a shred of hope… If only he could think of the right words…

“Bye,” he says at last, pathetically. It is a useless word, a word not equipped to articulate what he wants to say, what he needs to say.

Slowly, Jonah closes the door behind him. Owen winces as the door falls shut, with a hollow click of finality.

Suddenly, the wind quickens and crescendoes, sending the whole building into a shudder. The walls creak and moan. The branch of the tree outside the window scratches against the glass. A lone leaf remains fastened to the branch: brittle, frayed, on the edge of death.

~

Jonah leaves the apartment building in an ashamed rush, his shoulders slumped and his footsteps hurried, his thin jacket flaring in his wake. He longs to look back at Owen’s apartment, but he can sense Owen’s mournful gaze drilling into his back. He cannot face him.

Jonah’s pulse knocks in his throat as he returns to his current haunt. The air is still bone-chilling, but he does not truly feel it--the burn of shame reddens his cheeks, his neck, his ears. His heart races as his trembling fingers cling to the money, as though afraid it might leap from his grasp like a frightened insect.

The sky darkens above him as early dusk arrives. With it the onset of withdrawal approaches, curdling his stomach, blurring his vision, quickening the stream of thoughts in his fragile brain. A sudden urge to vomit arises, tickling in his throat like a metallic feather. Jonah clutches at his mouth and sprints into a narrow alley, gripping the rim of an old garbage can and lowering his head inside. He gags. A faint burning clings to the back of his throat, but no vomit streams from his mouth, just a dribble of saliva. Jonah blinks several times to gather his senses. Without warning, a sudden fear overwhelms him, and he wheels around, only to come upon a ghastly sight.

Slumped by the side of a dumpster lay the corpse of a woman no older than twenty-five, though something has worn her down significantly. Her clothes are ragged and threadbare, not equipped for the weather. Her hair, a dull brown, is brittle and unkempt, framing her gaunt, sallow face like a bird’s nest. Her skin is like sandpaper; her eyes are like unpolished blue marbles, gleaming with dead light.

Jonah reaches out to touch her, but he falters. Her body is stiff and hardened; rigor mortis has already set in. The stench of death surrounding her--sickening but sweet, like the scent of rotting fruit. He studies her more closely. Scars, long and thin, litter her white, bony arms. They are jagged and uneven, zigzagging up and down the length of her arms like rows of shark teeth. At the center of each arm, in the hollow place, in his favorite place to inject, in the place where hurt and memory reside, he sees her needle punctures, almost howling in their emptiness.

As horror blooms inside him, Jonah’s gaze swivels back to her eyes. Reflected in their dead glass, he sees himself: remote from his world, yet unbearably close to hers.

Jonah’s long, dirty fingernails claw at his neck. The acid singes and tingles in his throat. He pulls away from the dead girl and without warning, he vomits. There is nothing in his stomach--it is empty like his soul. Instead, a jet of dull green bile streams from his cracked, frozen lips. He tries to cry, to groan, anything to let him know he is still alive, but no sound emerges…

The sight of her…the sight of her eyes…the sight of himself…

Oh God.

~

Later, under the stillness of night, Jonah hastily buys meth from an anonymous dealer on a street corner. He only spends two hundred dollars worth of what Owen gave him. Normally he would have spent it all--but tonight, the shadows reflected in the dead addict’s eyes restrain him.

Now, he finds himself collapsed across the length of the mattress, periodically shivering but mostly comfortable in the condemned warehouse. The dust coating the windows protects him from the outside world.

Eagerly, though with not as much anticipation as before, he drives the needle into his arm, exhaling heavily, preparing for another indescribable experience…

But he is disappointed. There is no alleviation of his tattoo’s throbbing pain, its blaring color. There is no release of hurt and memory. There is no breathless collapse, no strobe lights, no monsters lurking in the window, no orgasmic heat.

The high is gone, and it is irretrievable.

All he can see now is the girl’s corpse, the dead glass in her eyes peering out at him like a mirror. It reflects all that there is in his world, all that he is and ever was, all that he ever will be, if he stays as he is. He sees himself there, but he also sees Owen, distorted but irrevocably present.

The sight of Owen is painful and beautiful, like staring directly into the sun, like enduring a childbirth, like emerging from a chrysalis.

This new sensation is horrifying, yet it is beyond his control, and therefore it is wonderful.

As small but brilliant points of light begin to seep inside him, a blinding clarity overcomes him.

This… thing that he is living, this monster in the corner… it is no life. He once knew what life was, and the dead glass shows him that he may still find it. Jonah knows now that somehow, he shall find that life again.