The final dance Chp 15


DFs, Valium and smoking weed anaesthetised and kept me subdued, whilst steadying my hankering for crack. Ticking four weeks of sobriety, called my former self to celebrate in a deep-rooted haunt and impatient to feast.

I started with several glasses of wine before swiftly moving onto brandy and coke in an unusual little club that I could only find when inebriated. It was just after midnight and I knew I’d hook up with a crack reprobate and predictably land in unison, in a crack house.

It’s easy to get anything you want if you pay attention and watch people. I watch this boisterous world from my disregarded mind. You learn a lot from listening and watching, I don’t talk much unless drunk. This particular night, my brain was bursting at the seams, crammed with noise.  I needed a release that’s why I had to go out.

I’ve spoken to no one about my life since leaving the hospital, Mum knows he been hurting me and is asking questions, I admitted it’s been going on for longer and refused to discuss anymore. Because I’m ok, I don’t see the point. it’s done.

The crack house was a flat situated on the second floor in a vibrant melting pot of cultures once notorious for drugs and prostitution on the edge of the city. The strong jaw of a hairless bloke in his 70s appears from behind a steel shutter bound by a metal door.

This was me looking spaced out with strange hair and eyebrows. Circa 1997

“what the fuck do ya want?” he grunts

 “what’s with the attitude man we just wanna lick stone,” said Del, my rock fiend.

“it’s me Del, man we go back years what ya sayin?  betrayal drips from Del’s kissed teeth.


Old bloke unlocks the door and greets Del with a slap on the back and theatrical welcome. I tread behind Del making our way towards a dim strip of light seeping from under the door.  Old bloke slams the front door shut and locks the bolts.

The taupe two-seater settee is cornerwise and strewn with absconded bodies lost in the impenetrable atmosphere, steeped in the aromatics of cracks signature scent, burnt plastic.  Misery clings to the air where there’s no escape from these wounded ego shadows waiting to exploit me.  I sit on the rough wooden floor beside Del who’s scratching the side of the can and making my mouth salivate for a rock. It’s only a matter of time before we’re dragged into the collective consciousness of this room, a dark as shit world.

Streaks of light from the street light showcase the heap of undeveloped females, humming like skunks and arms molested by heroin. A couple of girls from the heroin heap lift an eyebrow to acknowledge me, it’s all they can manage. It’s chilled smoking crack with heroin addicts, they don’t do much at all, much less drama than coke heads who are quite frankly a fucking nuisance.  After a few stones and numerous visits to the cash point and refusing to give Del’s a blow job I decide the leave.

“Del, I hate men, so trust me that’s the last place you wanna put your dick mate, so fuck off”

“prick tease bitch” Del spits

“Fuck off Del” I sigh and steady myself upright

“I’ve never seen a girl lick a can like you curly,” says old bloke

I bow to old bloke for the appreciation, slam my gurning jaw back and make my way to the door, chanting inside my head “act normal” act normal” act normal”.


Arriving safely home frequently amazed me, nonetheless getting through the door was a time-consuming challenge that frequently concluded with me breaking the kitchen window.  keys challenged my motor coordination and intoxicated brain, but my homing pigeon instincts were, on point.


Looking around the living room at the devastation from Otis’s final departure brought a moment of enlightenment. Otis had hidden some gear under my bed which he’d scammed from an acquaintance. Otis would have sworn on his life I wouldn’t touch his gear. I would have agreed, until smoke the whole fucking lot and suffered for three days of shaking, shivering, We never really know ourselves.

This was my detox and my final dance, I didn’t touch crack again.


Unpolished version


Alexia x

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