My Short (Drugs related) Story

[JKLJKLJKL]

OK, my friends and I have started to set theme's for short stories then each of us write on that theme.
A theme I was writing under was 'escape' and I came up with this, its all drugs related, and as with most stuff i read is semi autobiographical.

All feedback is very welcome. This is just a first draft I did yesterday, let me know.


Island in the Sun

The awakening introduction
You wake up and wish that you had escaped to your island in the sun. Now in the morning you find this wish incessantly easy, stay rolled in the duvet, heated by a night's worth of body heat (or however much sleep you managed to muster). Beds are comfier in the morning.

All you have to do, is wait for a summer's morning, your curtains have to be light curtains so that the sun brightens the room with a faded yellow haze. Now if you close your eyes tight enough and imagine acoustic guitars and twiddly electric melodies and really really think about it, think about the beautiful euphoria of peace. No silences there are deafening, silences are masked with gentle waves crashing against the softest and purest sand imaginable. You breath in and you can taste the slightly salty air, and with tender you taste the air's refreshing feel. You are in your island in the sun.

Island in the Sun.
Now you do not lay in your bed, scenes from any Hunter S. Thompson novel come flooding throughout your memory's gravitational pull and collide with your brain. An afternoon of calm and relaxation turns into a bing,e so moderate in fact, it worsens your reaction to the terror that you have created, of which you soon need to leave.

You roll another joint and look around the table to see many others in your state, but with smiles glistening against their faces. Suddenly they all look different, you don't see any change, your eyes are not playing tricks on you, and you are seeing something that deep down you know, is human and normal. Yet your mind conjures up new connotations with those objects, it is the theory of Structuralism to its core, except it isn't removing a novel from worldy preconceptions, its your preconceptions of friends turning into something completely new and abstract.

You begin to go weird. You try as hard as you can to think of them as you normally do but you can't, you begin to feel sick. You draw in on the newly rolled joint and pass it round. Everything is in slow motion and the feeling of smoke passing into your lungs goes so slowly you could almost trace its pattern with a pencil.

You breathe out and look around the room, the people who have changed in your mind are still changed, but also the room has changed, if it is even a room anymore. It like you no longer can call a room a room, it must be called something new. You need peace and quiet.

The adjoining room is dark and it seems peaceful, you stand up slowly and whatever it was you recently had is seriously impairing your ability to move, you edge slowly and each leg movement feels like you are hopping over mountains. You lay on the cold sofa and suddenly all you can think about is the textures of the sofa and the strange heat confusion you experience.

Panic rides over you like a lorry at ninety miles per hour, and the vomit that now lines your stomach is raising through you at similar speeds. You stand up and somehow manage to put your body into a high enough gear that gets you to the bathoom in time to see a strangely colourful waterfall leave you and land in the basin below. For a split second you begin to mend, and then everything comes back with a much higher intensity.

Confusion, panic, and as Hunter S Thompson fucking said, fear sweat from your every corner. Skin turns water drench and you rush back into your cold peace and quiet room. But the room is no longer the safe black that you noticed moments before. Now the room is filled with event. Dancing in every corner, not of humans, but of something else that you knew was residing in the room. You turned around and the mirror looked like a doorway into something else, you fell to the sofa and watched the ceiling's delicate sway.

Again my mind wandered to Thompson, fucking Thompson, his imagery now playing in High Definition on my mind's cinema. What to do.

You scrambled to the stairway, and the ten short steps seemed like lifetimes of fearsome adventure. You battle it slowly and there is a convienant bowl which you pick up quickly and enter the nearest bedroom you can find.

Voices fill the bedroom from the floor or lifetime below, they were distant but you knew what they were saying, or maybe you were thinking it. Scenes from books, told experiences and horror films sweep over you, all the while trying to contend with the violent sickful urges you have. You vomit again at the thought of it, and once again for a split second you can almost taste clarity, like a lightly salted air. That thought makes you throw up again yet somehow comforts you.

You take off your shirt and sweat now lines the bed, you wrap the duvet around you and it tends to you cooly.

I remain in this state for literally hours, hours that last for days.

And then music suddenly clicks back in, your hearing is first to return, and a friend has placed something on for you. You hear your morning routine, you imagine clearly and with excessive determination, the peak has finally worn away. You breath in and the salty air now makes you smile. You gurn. You swollow. The song gets louder and acoustic guitars are apparent. You close your eyes tight, you create the brightness, the faded hazy brightness. You smile more because finally you may just have found your rope, your harness, the safety and your escape.

You are nearly there now, and your mind proves to have power again. Everything remains fucked up, you still do not understand much of what exists around you, but you manage to stay on your island, you have performed a perfect retreat. A perfect escape to my Island in the Sun.