The cocaine ran me; I felt it flowing through my veins like a virus. It controlled me, worked me. It gave me a reason for just about anything. At 22, I had been using cocaine for about five years. I didn’t begin using habitually until I was 21. It wouldn’t be too harsh to say that it controlled my life. I was constantly buying coke from John up until now. The cocaine was exploding with energy in every muscle in my body as I stomped on the ice below me on my way to my car. I felt like a god; I could not be controlled and I could defeat and control whatever I wished. I stared for a minute at my car before cocking the baseball bat over my neck and slamming it into the door.
“God dammit! I fucking love it!” I hit the door a few more times before rearing my sweaty head towards my house, where my mother stood glaring at me.
“Get the fuck inside. Get the fuck inside!” I said, pointing my left hand at her. She quickly stepped back inside and slowly closed the door. I tore my car door open and sat down quickly. I rolled down the window and roughly smacked the side of the car, as if signaling somebody else to drive. Rolling the window up afterwards, I questioned my reason for the smacking. I started the car and stepped on the gas without hesitation. I was cruising at a good thirty-five miles an hour down Acorn Avenue before my tires gave up on me, slamming the passenger side of my vehicle into the trunk of a parked car.
“Hahaha… Ohhh shit.” I said, quickly looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the collision. “Fuck it.” I said, grabbing the steering wheel as hard as my hands would allow and cutting it left. I was not bothered by the wreck, and I assumed nobody had seen it, so I continued speeding, sliding around corners until I reached Greg’s street. There was an ominous feeling about as I slowed myself then, breathing in the air. Though my windows were all the way up, I smelled something horrible. The street had a smell of death lingering about it. Trashcans filled to their brim and distasteful furniture sat along the curb of seemingly every house. “This place is a fucking shit hole.” I said, realizing soon afterwards that I lived only a couple streets away from this one. I looked to my right and saw Greg’s house. His home looked like less of a house and more of a small manor of sorts. Although old, Greg’s house was not too shabby, and I became slightly jealous. I screeched to a stop over the curb and looked into Greg’s house. Clutching one side of my nose, I inhaled again in an attempt to put more cocaine in my system. Sure enough, my throat became numb again and I felt the usual rush. This time was different though. I felt this incredible ecstatic rush, but overpowered by a blanket of anger and hatred. I yanked the key from the ignition and grabbed my door as quickly as I could. Without hesitation, I stepped halfway out from my car and grabbed my baseball bat that had been riding shotgun. I slammed the door hard and inspected the dents I had put in my car just a few minutes before. After looking for a good minute or two, I vigorously stomped up onto the sidewalk and down Greg’s shitty layout of bricks and dead flowers making a “walk way” that he may have thought looked nice. I approached the door and looked into the window. I did not see Greg. I grabbed my nose again and inhaled. I was ready to go.
After about thirty seconds of standing to check for witnesses, I turned my head, biting my lip. I retracted my elbow and shattered Greg’s front door.
“Come out you fucking piece of shit! I know you’re in there bitch!”
“Mark.” I heard Greg’s voice drift calmly through his dark hallway.
“I said come out here, faggot!” I said, looking down to spit on the fancy carpet in his foyer.
“Mark… we can talk about this.” He said. All of the pain that Greg had caused my mother, and therefore myself, brought me to believe that violence was the only option at this point.
“I’ve been putting up with you screaming at my mother all these years and now you beat her? Do you not understand who you’re fucking with right now!” My goal was to frighten Greg, although I spoke nothing but the truth.
“Mark, just calm down.”
“I said get out here.” I stated in a slightly more calm tone.
“Mark, I have a gun.”
“Oh do you? You have a gun? You? You fucking pussy! You’ve never seen a gun in your goddamn life!” I said, stepping through his threshold then. “Greg… Greg. All you are is a worthless waste of life.” I gripped my baseball bat and slammed it into the legs of a small table on the left side of his foyer. The table crumbled opening a drawer where various work items like staplers and paperclips had been. “I’m telling you, I’m not fucking around this time.”
“Mark, don’t make me shoot you.”
I still couldn’t see Greg; I could only hear his weak, cowardly voice.
“Fucking shoot me then! Shoot me!” I took a pause, walking deeper into his house. I was passing glass pictures and vases. “Oh these are nice.” I said, before swinging my bat at them. Glass covered the ground I walked on towards Greg’s gutless voice. I jumped up and down on the glass, making sure it was broken and pleasing the demon inside of me. I slid around the corner swiftly and I glared at Greg sitting in an especially dark corner of his living room. Sure enough, Greg was shaking a revolver with two hands nervously. “You are no man. You see, people don’t fuck with my family, understand?” I said, approaching Greg’s fat shaking body.
“Mark… Mark, I promise. I swear to Jesus Christ this wont happen again, I swear!”
“Oh. Oh, I know that already” I said, reaching into my pocket.
“Wha… What are you… you doing?”
“Oh just… nothing.” I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. Grabbing Greg by his throat, he dropped his weapon.
“Who’s powerful now? Huh? Who’s the boss, bitch?” I easily slid the card horizontally into Greg’s drooling mouth. Greg tried to say something, but with the license in his mouth, it was very distorted and slurred. Saliva dripped from the card and onto his hardwood floor as he cried in fear. Grunting and snorting all the while, I wiggled the card around in Greg’s mouth.
“This will only hurt, well… a lot to be very frank.” I laughed.
“Please… please. What…” I heard Greg spit just before I powerfully kicked him in his ribcage. I had always dreamed of giving somebody a Chelsea Smile, but I figured I would need a knife for the operation. Since I didn’t have a knife handy at the time, I figured the I.D. would work. Exactly as I had hoped, Greg grew two cuts along the sides of his mouth as I continuously kicked him. His screams only stretched the cuts over his cheeks until they nearly reached his ears.
“Now that’s a pretty fucking smile!” I said jokingly, kicking Greg in his groin this time. His screams were muffled by the huge amount of furniture and other useless shit comprising his living room. Greg’s face was now covered in blood rolling over his two chins onto his chest. I could tell he was going into shock after all of his screaming.
“Hey buddy. Hey, Greg. Greg!” I smacked him in the face, trying to wake him up. I wanted Greg to experience as much pain as I possibly could inflict before I did what I needed to do, but the cocaine was pushing me to use my baseball bat. I wielded the baseball bat high above my head and promptly slugged the top right side of his fat head. The loudest crack I had heard since I hit that car before flew in and out of my ears. Greg’s head was slightly caved in and I laughed harder and harder with each swing of the bat. After three or four hits I had pulverized his head into nothing but a circle of pulp. His head drooped over his chest and the blood flowed from the lacerations in his skull onto his old Grateful Dead tee shirt. Just the sight of this wasted man sparked feelings of lovely amusement inside of me. “Oh shit dude… didn’t mean to do all that.” I kneeled down around his body for about thirty seconds before I stood up and prepared to walk away from the scene. “Oh you’ll be fine, don’t be such a pussy.” I said, ruffling what hair he had left on his head and smiling. About three steps away from the body, I felt a strong urge to hit it again. I turned around and slammed the bat into his chest, completely knocking the body onto its side. This covered the floor in more blood than I had supposed there was, and it pleased me. I licked my lips and turned around to face the cold air ahead.
The pull of my thumb against the flint of my lighter stung, but warmed the air momentarily as I lit a cigarette on Greg’s porch. Lifting my head I took a huge sighing pull from my cigarette and exhaled, watching the mixture of smoke and steaming air flow from my mouth and nose. My mind was overflowing with adrenaline and burning warmth. I had absolutely no idea what I was thinking and I was having a hard time remembering how I got to where I was standing. I did not know why I was feeling what I was feeling; all I knew is that it was good. I could’ve stood there and bathed in my homicidal bliss for hours, but I knew that it was time to go.
The cocaine was slowly but surely working itself out of my system. I felt a strange tingling in the back of my head, a consistent signal that the drug was leaving my body. For a split second I found myself unaware of where I was or what I was doing. Driven by fear, I closed my eyes and shoved my knuckles against them. Pressing into my eyes always brought about a beautiful array of colors that completely covered my spectrum of vision. Coming off of cocaine is really hard to deal with, and I couldn’t tell if what I was doing to my eyes was making it better or worse.
“Christ,” The colors were growing more intense with each second. All the while I wondered if the colors I saw while pressing my eyes were normal effects of the act, or if I could possibly have some sort of serious mental problem. I quite often ignored problems that I saw with my body and its function. I knew that my body was deteriorating, but I really didn’t care too much. My skin was an unhealthy pale, my hands often shook, my knees were weak, and I was seriously underweight. However, this time I was seriously worried. I didn’t know what was wrong with my eyes and it scared me. I quickly removed my hands from my eyes and felt a rush of blood into my head. I stumbled slightly through the snow towards my car and collapsed, my head spinning, my vision fading. I woke up to a burning rash on my cheek, which had been buried in the snow for days it seemed. I pulled my struggling body from the pile of snow adjacent from the sidewalk.
“Aaahh!” I cried, speaking in tongues of which I had never heard. Through my babbling nonsense, I thrust myself over the curb and vomited onto the street. Struggling to breathe, I continued to vomit before my chest seized up, dropping the rest of my body onto the sidewalk behind me. My breathing could be heard from yards away. The constant wheezing from years of smoking topped by the liquid vomit trapped in the back of my throat certainly made for a strange squeal. After waiting a few minutes, I sat up. I clenched my face, holding back sour disgusting burps crawling from my throat. Waiting a few more minutes, I stood completely upright. Surprisingly, I felt okay. I walked over to my car, got in and started it up. While driving home, I experienced the best high I had experienced in quite a while. This high was equivalent to no drug I had ever taken before in my life. I felt high all right, but it felt strange, a good kind of strange. This high felt natural. My body had released some kind of chemical that calmed my entire body while making me feel completely empowered at the same time. I was unstoppable, yet I figured I would take it easy on others. I watched my way throughout the slippery streets around town, making my way to my home quicker than usual. Just as I grabbed the icy cold stick, putting my car into park, visions of my recent run-in with Greg invaded my thoughts.
Blood covered the wall as I rounded a corner into a dark room in Greg’s house. I looked at my feet and saw Greg’s as well. Bent backwards in all kinds of heinous ways, Greg’s body lay in a corner, still dripping. His head was almost nothing, ribcage caved in, and arms spread wide. I looked up from my steering wheel back in my car and smiled. I patted my leg softly and felt the bag of cocaine still in my pocket.
“Cool” I said softly. My eyes were drooping and I was tired, but Greg’s corpse lay in my mind, waking my up, but keeping me calm at the same time. I looked down at my shaking phone to see a call from Peter.
“Hello?” I said calmly.
“Yo yo! What’s up playa?” Peter’s voice cut into my ear, destroying my serenity. Peter was used to talking to his mother, who was (legally) deaf, and had to be spoken to loudly. He lived with his mother up until about two years ago, when he split his kneecap with a saw in a metal cutting warehouse he worked in for minimum wage. Since he had to piss clean for the job itself, it was needless to say that he hadn’t spent much time on the job before slicing himself. Unemployment and workers compensation will not be paid if the employee doesn’t piss clean after the accident. And since he wasn’t making much money and really didn’t have any friends at the time, he had no drugs to use. Like myself, Peter pretty much gave up after high school and lived with his mother. Due to what he saw fit to call a blessing in disguise; he was able to move away from his mother and into an apartment in a really shitty part of the neighborhood. Peter’s poor mother was left to waste away in her home alone. She was always a big drinker, but she always treated Peter well. I knew that she would die soon, whether it was from intentional alcohol poisoning or some other means of suicide.
“Big Pete, what’s goin’ on?” I replied in an attempt to retain the calm that I had held but a few minutes ago.
“Nothing really, dude. I was just checking up, seeing if you wanted to chill tonight. I heard you got some of that good stuff. You know, that white girl bro. Anyways, I was thinking you could come chill at the crib, we can hit a few bumps, you know, call some bitches up. I was thinking about hitting up Daniel and Ken too, like gettin’ the boys back together again. What do you say bro?”
“Yeah I can do that. I plan on gettin’ some kind of repay for this white girl though. Can’t have y’all using up all my shit, especially some this good.” As soon as I finished my sentence, I realized that I hadn’t told anybody about the cocaine, and there was only one way that Peter could know. “Wait, Peter, what the fuck? How the fuck do you know about the shit?”
“Pfft” he took a sarcastic-sounding breath outwards before speaking. “Man, dude, Stacy is everywhere all the time.”
“What? How did she even know?” Normally I would have panicked at about this point in the conversation, but I was not worried now.
“Man, she said she saw the god damn bags hanging right out your shirt dude. Your boy John, what happened to that mother fucker?”
From nowhere, I heard sirens moving quickly about the streets surrounding mine. I quickly stepped onto the icy street and balanced my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder. Throwing my hood over my head, I marched down the sidewalk towards my front door.
“Shit, Pete, I gotta call you back. Wait, wait, matter of fact, I’ll just see you at your place tonight.” I said, ripping a key ring and a handful of lint from my pocket.
“Alright, well what time do you…” I hung up on Peter before he could finish his sentence and slipped my phone into my pocket.
Cramming the key into its slot and yanking it sideways was not enough to budge the door’s handle and I slammed my fist onto the door.
“Ma!” I exclaimed, attempting to get her attention in urgency.
“I’m coming.” I heard my mother whisper from the living room.
Ma opened the door for me, and I hopped through the threshold, in a ridiculous attempt to avoid the police. I sat in the living room, listening to the fading sirens as my mother talked strangely to the television.
Did I do everything right? I know there weren’t any fingerprints… what about the credit card? Could it have left some kind of imprint in his mouth? Could they tell what kind of baseball bat I was using? Could they trace that back to me? I sat, wondering all about what could and should have happened with the police, until something inside me told me to move. Stepping up the stairs and into my room, I slipped my phone from my pocket. After finding Peter in my contacts list, I sent him a text message. “B ther @ 9”. It was Seven O’ Clock.