The faint glow of a computer monitor illuminated Jake's room. The corpses of discarded envelops sent from the far reaches of the Dark Net littered his floor. The paper ghosts Fent pills, etizolam, methamphetamine hydrochloride and various others (all tested at 85-95% purity) all stood watch, crowded together in the ambiance of awkward silence, all cued to the symphony of a life breaking down;
(4:33 is a three-movement-composition by American experimental composer John Cage. It was composed in 1952, for any instrument or combination of instruments, and the score instructs the performer(s) not to play their instrument(s) during the entire duration of the piece throughout the three movements. The piece consists of the sounds of the environment that the listeners hear while it is performed, although it is commonly perceived as "four minutes thirty-three seconds of silence." The title of the piece refers to the total length in minutes and seconds of a given performance, 4′33″ being the total length of the first public performance... this may seem tangential but the silence.
The fucking silence... is quite relevant to this tale. Anyway...)
"Whose there? Who the FUCK are you?!?" Jake yelled at his door.
"It's Sera.. please. Please open your door so we can talk."
"I do not consent to search or seizure of my person or property."
Jake said, echoing his mantra. One of the only things to binding him to some semblance or normalcy after "the voices" had made themselves known.
Another pharma-ball (a small dose of fent plus methamph) and another obscure benzo-derivative taken as a sacrament to stay one step ahead of the paranoia... or was it paranoia. No way to tell at this point. The situation was rather (for lack of a better term) nuanced. This had been day 4 going on day 5. Now, the only reality was slavish consumption tinged with a dose of irrational fear.
"Heh, irrational." Jake said (whoa responding to my narrative. Nice 4th wall break if I do say so myself)
"Rationale hasn't done much for me lately. Rationale is subservience to the whims of a police state founded on dead morals." He said again. Lighting a cigarette after sucking back the drip from whatever concoction he'd snorted methamph and... other stuff. Oh well.
I don't remember where I was when this was happening but I do remember having shut my phone off. Social interaction was never my strong suit. The few friends I had were batshit insane and at the time, drinking myself into a stupor... getting lost in some hedonism of my own, seemed like a better time than dealing with any "drama." The message he'd left was scratchy sounding. Conspiracy theories about some sex trafficking ring, references to Camus and his thoughts on suicide and, towards the end what sounded an awful lot like a door being broken down . A couple fortnights later, Jake was out of the hospital.
"Holy shit man are you okay?" My own voice probably sounding a little scratchy over the phone.
"Yeah, I'm good..."
"I... I'm sorry."
Jesus, I'm sorry? 20 some odd years of seeking out dark places and I still have no clue what to say.
"It's alright. I'm a lot better. The new meds help."
After finishing what remained of my beer and offering a few more platitudes of encouragement, I eventually said goodbye followed with a;
"Hit me up whenever."
It all seemed... fake at least on my end. The rest of it. The chaos and uncertainty. The feelings of hope and a new lease on life. The tears (both hysterical and joyful at various points on the timeline of the last 2 months) shed by his family, strangers to me but all too real. I decided against calling my plug and shut off my overhead light before whispering;
"I'm glad you're alive man. I hope the new meds really are working. I... I wish I could have been there. I wish I never would have helped you cop your first pill. Shit... seems like a lifetime ago...I wish I could have been better too. "