THE  

    REAPER

This depicts the dilapidating horrors of drug addiction

Nobody saves you.

 Nobody hunts you down and yanks you out and tells you what you knew long ago.

 No one goes into the lion's den to say to you, "You'll die if you stay here much longer." 

No one.

And you live a solitary life.

 Surrounded on all sides by the living dead, 

junkies and predators that prey on their dead flesh that you'd call friends

 if they didn't act just like you do--zombies by injection--invalids by poverty-- 

thieves and backstabbers by necessity. You trust no one.

Not even the one or two like you that you hang with--not one. 

You know they'd steal your stash if you don't hide it, your shoes if you don't wear them,

 your soul if you let them--and you know they will try if you don't watch like a hawk, 

but you know you are no hawk, 

nodding, half-conscious of nothing, watching no one.

High, you call it. Half dead, your life nods on, not even a sleepy nightmare--

your dream is your living--your nightmare, reality. 

The nightmare lasts, on and on, nod by nod, day by day,

 night by night, hour by hour, by a clock tick the nightmare edges, 

jabbing you forward, tick by tick, trickle by bloody trickle.

Years are nothing. Momentary memories, a blur of bad times, 

ever-so-rarely marked by a jiffy birthday cake that you bought and made yourself--

pretended you had friends you shared a moment with--

while they nodded to you--Happy Birthday. You want to run from your life. 

Scream yourself awake from the nightmare. 

You don't care about much, if anything, and if that means dying to leave it, 

it's just a nod away, a thoughtless 911 moment,

 unplanned, a break from your dream in hell.

But it's okay for now, you have another waiting jab to nod you back to living--dead.

There are those times, some times, when you awaken for a moment, 

just long enough to feel the pain of being alive. You take a breath,

 wrinkling your nose to the clean air stink in a holding cell or detox tank. 

You feel again, and wince 'cause you know 30 days in the hole is too hard on your nails

 and anything is better than waking up cold turkey in a padlocked cell 

with new friends all around waiting to prey on you. 

And you're as alone as a dying man on a cross--

but here's where you learned to pray for the pain to stop--the feeling hurts.

But your pain only relieves the monotony and entertains your new friends.

 No one here is listening; no hymnal books on the bench here; 

no one here cares for life or death; and no one hears your screaming--

parched mouthed. No one is rushing here to save you. No one.

But the bottom of the nightmare isn't dark when you arrive. 

And it's so bright and loud you can't sleep through it anymore. 

It's too real when you do see it. And you know you're too far-gone when you do finally care.

 But now the dream that comes to at night, you recognize--

you remember it. Vaguely; the one you once slept with, smiling, 

when you were younger and innocence had not fled your

 life and hope reigned as it does for youth.

And that hope-glimmer becoming so bright and strong a light, 

like a moth, irresistible, you are drawn.

 And then hope is alive but you distrust it knowing the cruelest betrayals

 come on just like this. But you let yourself feel it anyway, 

let yourself be drawn to it, clutching at it like a half-drowned insect; 

it's like a bright thread inviting you into a spider's web.

Hope--but now it is the fly's dilemma. Take a chance on the spider's appetite

 or slip down deeper, falling, drowning quickly in the deep black water below.

 You grasp that thread, and you begin crawling up it; 

moment by moment it prolongs your life, awake, a moment more alive. 

Once again you measure, tick by tick, but you know the spider is close-

and the water is deep, but slender hope keeps the Reaper at bay--

moment by moment, tick by tick. And you haven't drowned.

Then you pray the bottom prayer. The last one. The only one. 

You know it the best. And you pray for an answer to your prayer. 

And you pray for an end to come. Any end. You can't even tell anymore 

if you're begging or praying. And you don't care. You know no one cares.

But you wait the 30 days to pass, you pass them praying--for a savior, for a nod,

for the pain to stop, for the lonely to pass. Savior, salvage,

 or fire sale--you wait--that's all there is. Your life rises to conscious

 view and the pain is too much so you play the game--anything for relief--

anything. You wait, for an answer--this time-but waiting is all you have left. 

Then your brain begins to clear. The slender hope grows stronger--

this time-and you think you can.

A kid's story, the Little Engine that Could, and your mantra becomes a kid's story, 

"I think I can. I think I can." The little chant fills you. There is nothing more. 

And an answer to your prayer arrives.

express mail. You're going home. You remember how you love your mom. 

Oh yes, and you cry. And you cry. And you cry.

 And you take the train ticket to the

station and no one leads you by the arm. Free and clear you step aboard.

This time you know failing is no option. The engine starts with a lurch, 

chugging forward. The Reaper is no longer aboard. 

You can feel the chugging rhythm of the train, clicking wheels rolling slowly faster, 

building speed, moment by moment, click by click . . .

And you pray a new mantra, "I can. I am . . ."

c.1997, cougr (pseudonym)

THANK YOU FOR STOPPING BY............CALIF_SPICE