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Going Home (standard:drama, 2494 words)
Author: TamarinAdded: Oct 02 2006Views/Reads: 2028/1232Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young addicts search for home and redemption.
 



‘Going Home' 

He really did not want to open his eyes, he did not want the pounding in
his head that would follow, or the feeling of total, and utter 
wretchedness that would overwhelm him as he took in the wreckage of the 
room he was in. This in total honesty would be a great  metaphore for 
his life as it stood right now. He shifted slightly in the bed and 
could feel the unmistakable feeling of skin on skin. ‘What was her 
name'?  His mind battled with the question for a couple of seconds, but 
it gave up and admitted defeat, and did it matter who she was?  He 
asked himself.  There were so many nameless, desperate young things, 
‘just like you', he reminded himself .                                  
                                                                        
                                 He took a deep breath and sprang his 
eyes open, the room was bathed in bright, and to his mind, vicious 
accusing sunlight. 

What had his friend and mentor Dave said last night?  The night before? 
Or maybe it was the night before that?  “Go home kid”, he had told 
him”go home before the city finishes you off”. Well he could hardly 
disagree with that could he? 

The room was a mess, he stank, and the girl beside him stank as well. He
could see the mirror, the sunlight reflecting off it, insisting on 
being noticed, there was still a little pile of the white powder on it. 
Oh how he wanted to take a hit, just to get his aching muscles moving. 

Home! How the fuck could he go home?  He had no home to go back to, no
parents, no safe haven to stop the nauseating downward spiral he was 
in, nowhere and no-one, to anchor him or protect him, and he needed 
both. He could feel tears starting to roll down his cheeks, damn self 
pity,” you arsehole” he shouted at the room, as he swiped away at his 
tears .                                                              He 
had to leave, had to get away, and it had to be now before he lost the 
courage to walk away from the known, he grabbed his jeans , put on a T 
shirt, all the while the mirror was calling him like some siren, It 
felt like his head was about to implode .                              
His jacket was harder to locate, and it took him a few minutes to find 
it under the still, dead to the world, anonymous girls' clothing. His 
keys! Where were his keys?  ‘Fuck it', he told himself, he would not 
need them, as he had no intention of returning.                      He 
wanted to kick the mirror, but ‘leave it for the girl', he told 
himself. It was the least he could do.                                  
                                                                        
                                 He opened the door, took one look at 
the present, and slammed the door shut, almost running down the stairs 
and onto the street. He needed coffee, he wanted cocaine, but most of 
all he wanted sanctuary, as he started  walking that little voice 
started in on him, ‘why not go back' it said 'leave tomorrow'. 

He shook his head violently in an effort to shut it up, what day was it?
What time? He looked at his wrist, and for perhaps the millionth time 
wondered why he looked at his wrist when he never wore a watch. He 
giggled, but it was manic in nature. Camden underground loomed up 
before him, but he walked past it and into a run down coffee place that 
for some reason that was lost to him, he always used. The coffee was 
tasteless as usual, but it hardly registered, his mind was to busy 
concentrating on getting the cup to his lips as his hands were shaking 
so much. ‘Go home kid' the words repeated themselves in his cracked 
mind over and over again. He had to get home, it was almost as if his 
mind was empty and this was the only thought it was capable of.  
Suddenly it became clear to him it made no sense, but it was the only 
idea that he could come up with, home equals. 

Liverpool Street was his goal, his legs took him into Camden station and
then down into the depths of the station. How he hated the underground, 
the smell the lack of air and the almost overwhelming urge he got to 
throw himself under the oncoming train as it sped into the station. 

He could do this journey in his sleep, which was pretty lucky; he told
himself as otherwise he would never get there.  He pushed himself back 
against the wall as the train thundered into the station, his eyes 
tightly shut, his stomach rolling and that's how he stayed, not moving 
a muscle until he was sure the train had ceased to move. The train was 
nearly empty and he sat gratefully. 


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