The High Life

The High Life

I woke up in a haze of stale cigarettes with a comedown that even the hardest of go-ers would despise. It took me a while to realise where I was, what I was wearing and if I was alone. I realised I was naked below the waist, while my braless top half covered by a baggy London 2012 t-shirt.

The blind breathed in and out as the wind sucked it through the window. The light played across the rumpled duvet. I rolled over and faced the half-naked guy in my bed. I felt like I could feel my dilated pupils, like I was some sort of fucking cartoon character. My bladder, neglected by the oppression of Class A drugs, screamed and throbbed to be emptied. I rolled off the stained mattress and stumbled towards the bathroom.

My head, heavy and fogged with last nights bullshit, throbbed. After my relief, I looked in the mirror at my reflection. My face, gaunt, had bags as big as cargo containers which weighed heavy on my cheeks. When was the last time I’d eaten? My appetite was completely suppressed and I no longer felt the pangs of hunger. I looked at my fingers, yellow and stained with nicotine and then towards my stubby nails speckled with chipped polish.

For a brief moment there was clarity as I looked back into the black pools in the centre of my eyes…

*

The lights around the city flickered and I closed the window to stop a faint late-summer chill rushing through my living room. We had all gathered in my Glasgow flat for a boozy over-indulgent night. The mixer was out and so many hefty beats were blasting through the speakers that everyone just had to dance. We were skint, glad of each others company, but not too broke to have ourselves a good time.

At about 10:45pm, we ran out of vodka and anything else with a decent proof to shove down our throats. Lu had suggested calling Dial-A-Booze, and we all leapt at the chance of getting another couple of litres to last us until the small hours, before we passed out and tried it all again. It took us twelve attempts wrecked to realise that the boozy night was not going to happen. Dial-A-Booze had failed us.

We all joked that living in Glasgow, it would be easier to ascertain some pills than it would be booze. Before we knew it, we were all walking down West George Street on our way to meet our dealer, The Biscuit. 30 quid later, we all had a magic pill that would make us fly, soar and come crashing down when the music finally stopped.

By 3:45 AM we were all up, chewing 5 sticks of gum each, and making love to each other’s personalities. It was insane: the music filled our minds, it reverberated in our souls and before we knew it, it had penetrated so deep within our psyches we thought that each individual note and kick drum was a personal love letter.

Then the feeling dissipated, like waves lapping on a shore. The tide of drugs in our system slowly drawing out, further and further. Before long, we felt nothing but the paranoia and pain that comes from being awake for 21 hours and only pissing twice.

I stumbled to my bed, my hair knotted on my head like a 2-pence geisha, and drew back the My Little Pony duvet. I climbed in, the half naked body of someone else already filling the space next to me. I let unconsciousness wash over me and consume me, before the harsh light of day plagued my closed eyes and I felt the urge to soar and make love to the music again.

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