Thursday, May 17, 2007
Book Extracts, No. 2 in a series
This, from 'The paperweight wars' :
Right now, Simon Garry was angry with himself.
Angry, because he'd allowed himself to fall .
Hungover. Remorseful. Suffering the pcbb’s (post cocaine binge blues) - about as low as it ever gets.
He collapsed back into his bed and took a long, hard look at his life; how he had so much opportunity yet had squandered so much creative energy on hedonistic indulgences.
He thought about his ex-wife Julie and their two little boys, Samuel and James, who were probably, right now, throwing a football around the yard of the home Simon had set them up in, in Walnut Creek.
Simon needed to see them. Soon.
He thought about his own childhood, his time with the 'Angels, his time wasted on hard drugs and his fortuitous escape to the good life.
He thought about his parents; a father who had been blinded in a freak accident then died from an alcohol-related physical breakdown when Simon was fourteen years old. And his mother who had somehow survived all the stresses only to be killed, murdered in a convenience store shoot out. This day had been the worst Simon had ever known. It took three years, until he was 24, for him to come to terms with what was such an unnecessary death; an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of evil.
He had come to terms with the anger, but he still felt some guilt about the anguish he had caused this woman as she fought to guide him through his teens.
He thought about his God, the power inside that he failed to understand but had faith in all the same.
He thought about the story he'd heard many years before at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, about a man who had questioned his own God: "Back then , when I was so low, I walked the beach. I looked back but there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you when I needed you so badly?"
"Yes, there was only one set of footprints in the sand" came the reply, "because I was carrying you".
He thought about himself. From the outside he had the life and the opportunity that a lot of people dreamed of. Yet, he had nothing.
He thought.
He cried.
Eventually, he drifted into a sleep that, for a moment, he wished was death.
Simon woke again at around ten pm.
He was still feeling jaded, but feeling a lot better than he had earlier; tears are sometimes a good cleanser.
After another shower he walked to his safe and carefully wound in the combination. From a white cardboard box he lifted a small, glass ampoule and an unopened, disposable hypodermic syringe.
He snapped the top off the ampoule, its no-nonsense label proclaiming the contents: 'Morphine Sulphate.' With the precision of a medic, he drew the liquid up into the syringe, then held it upside down to expel the air bubbles. The needle entered the vein, blood flowing back into the 10CC syringe. He released the pressure of the belt around his arm and gently worked the plunger home. Within 2 seconds, the rush - the warm, prickly glow that only a junkie knows - coursed his body and settled knowingly in his brain ready to write the scripts for opiate dreams.
Right now, Simon Garry was angry with himself.
Angry, because he'd allowed himself to fall .
Hungover. Remorseful. Suffering the pcbb’s (post cocaine binge blues) - about as low as it ever gets.
He collapsed back into his bed and took a long, hard look at his life; how he had so much opportunity yet had squandered so much creative energy on hedonistic indulgences.
He thought about his ex-wife Julie and their two little boys, Samuel and James, who were probably, right now, throwing a football around the yard of the home Simon had set them up in, in Walnut Creek.
Simon needed to see them. Soon.
He thought about his own childhood, his time with the 'Angels, his time wasted on hard drugs and his fortuitous escape to the good life.
He thought about his parents; a father who had been blinded in a freak accident then died from an alcohol-related physical breakdown when Simon was fourteen years old. And his mother who had somehow survived all the stresses only to be killed, murdered in a convenience store shoot out. This day had been the worst Simon had ever known. It took three years, until he was 24, for him to come to terms with what was such an unnecessary death; an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of evil.
He had come to terms with the anger, but he still felt some guilt about the anguish he had caused this woman as she fought to guide him through his teens.
He thought about his God, the power inside that he failed to understand but had faith in all the same.
He thought about the story he'd heard many years before at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, about a man who had questioned his own God: "Back then , when I was so low, I walked the beach. I looked back but there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you when I needed you so badly?"
"Yes, there was only one set of footprints in the sand" came the reply, "because I was carrying you".
He thought about himself. From the outside he had the life and the opportunity that a lot of people dreamed of. Yet, he had nothing.
He thought.
He cried.
Eventually, he drifted into a sleep that, for a moment, he wished was death.
Simon woke again at around ten pm.
He was still feeling jaded, but feeling a lot better than he had earlier; tears are sometimes a good cleanser.
After another shower he walked to his safe and carefully wound in the combination. From a white cardboard box he lifted a small, glass ampoule and an unopened, disposable hypodermic syringe.
He snapped the top off the ampoule, its no-nonsense label proclaiming the contents: 'Morphine Sulphate.' With the precision of a medic, he drew the liquid up into the syringe, then held it upside down to expel the air bubbles. The needle entered the vein, blood flowing back into the 10CC syringe. He released the pressure of the belt around his arm and gently worked the plunger home. Within 2 seconds, the rush - the warm, prickly glow that only a junkie knows - coursed his body and settled knowingly in his brain ready to write the scripts for opiate dreams.
