Cravings

Cravings

I am staring at two small pouches lying on the table. Through transparent material I can clearly see their contents. One is filled with old fashioned weed. Latter encapsulates a chip. With psychoactive, psycho stimulating software engraved in its memory bank.

I am getting up and start walking around the room. My mind is engulfed in storm of thoughts. I don't think I can withstand it any more. I am feeling like an empty shell. My feelings, my friends, my kids are not here. How is doing Adam? He used to sniff glue and his brain is really fucked up. Slowly, but he was getting better last time I saw him. And how is Julia? She used to sell her body for all sorts of electro crap she could get. My eyes glanced over the pouch with a chip. What she would be able to do to get it at the time I've met her for the first time? I am reaching for cannabis. I juggle it in my hand. For Mark only sacred mary mattered. He was one the most easy going of them all. Good natured, funny, with good sense of humour. He used to spend every night playing guitar, talking with friends besides fire on the seashore, smoking weed. To collect money for supplies he was playing guitar on the streets. I hope he's doing well.

I am squeezing little bag of weed in my fist. My eyes are wet. I am feeling a cold, salty drop rolling down my cheek. My breath is getting shallower and faster. My chest is full of pain. Nowadays my life is meaningless. Muscles in my hand are getting softer, my fist is opening. My wet, red, burning eyes, flooding with irritation are devouring the devilish content hiding in my palm.

It is fifth day already I am staying in the residential drug abuse centre Phoenix, referred here by my college. In the centre of the desk, besides me and Paul – head psychotherapist – is lying a bag containing electro chip. Paul's eyes are looking today tired and sad. I am reaching into my another pocket and placing on the table a tiny bag of cannabis. Paul is sitting in an old chair. On the scratched wall behind him, apparently in need of renovation, there is hardly visible quote: ''One does not reach the fruit, who gives up too early''. The furniture is old and cheap, interior's design simple - if any conscious one was ever done - but it feels warm and safe.

''Paul, thank you for your sincerity and all kind of help. But I can't take it any more. I was sent here by my language college for one week. My cravings, my demons have awaken here. You are a psychotherapist, you understand me, don’t you? I was trying very hard, but I am still far away of the goal.''
Paul's hand is reaching for two pouches on the desk. He's eyes are exploring them carefully and after a while his hand is throwing them into the fire place.
''I have checked all the postage to our kids. It was in a letter addressed to Jorge - again. Third time in just a week.''
Paul is slowly sighing. He covers his face.

''Paul, I gave up. I have decided. You know that my language must be fluent, must be perfect for this job. I am going back to Germany next week. There are plenty drug addicted children who need help, too. I am a psychologist, after all.''

(Science)-fiction short short story by hotbit. Graphics by hotbit.