Cocaine: The Ritual

The ritualistic actions and the aftermath of cocaine.

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This post might be triggering for anyone struggling with substance misuse. Support is available at Lifeline 13 11 14 and Family Drug Support Australia 1300 368 186.

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I hold the tiny bag tenderly between trembling fingers. I tremble with want, anticipation. I tremble with desperation. The white powder inside promises me all that I could ever want and need.

The high. The comfort. The peace.

The escape.

I lick a finger tip and dip it into the bag to collect a small sample of the powder, place it on my tongue. Pause. Close my eyes. I taste the chemical bitterness. I smile. Moments later, I roll my tongue around in my mouth, marveling at the numbness of it. Reveling in the sensation.

I tip out some of the precious powder onto the counter top. It shimmers in the light. Angelic. I place a note over it. Take a credit card and run it over the back of the note, back and forth, breaking down the crystalised pieces into even tinier particles. Particles that will more easily seep into my blood stream to become a part of me.

I lift the note. There’s some powder left on it. I scrape it off and add it to the tiny mound on the counter top. I take my card again. I push and pull the powder with the card, up, down, left right. I make a perfect white line.

A perfect white line of promise, pleasure and pain. A perfect white line, not dissimilar to the white lines that scar my thighs from cuts made long ago. Cuts that still feel like yesterday.

I admire my masterpiece. Growing anticipation gnaws at me. I must savour it. I must savour every, tiny particle. I’m enslaved. Entrapped. Enchanted.

I take up my note again, deftly rolling it into a tight cylinder, like a straw. Years of practice. The note is rolled up tightly in seconds. I check my nostrils. Which one is less congested? The left. No, the right one. Definitely the right one.

I tilt my head backwards. Inhale. A ritual. A sacrifice of self and soul. Take them. Let the devil take my self and soul. He’s had me for a long time now anyway.

I bend my head down towards the counter top. Sweep my hair to the side. The rolled up note goes into my right nostril. I place the other end of the note on the edge of that glorious, white, shimmering line. My beautiful line. Like a path that leads me to refuge and safety. To my safe haven. Just one breath away.

One finger pushes my left nostril closed.

The powder disappears in one long inhalation as I swipe the note right to left, collecting each precious particle, taking it all in, deep into my body.

Pause.

Exhale through my mouth.

My eyes close. As if in prayer. A silent prayer of gratitude and fulfilment as the numbness on my tongue fades and the numbness of my soul takes over.

The chemical taste trickles down my throat. I swallow, savouring the bitterness, knowing what pleasures it brings.

The euphoria.

The simplicity of such ecstasy.

A perfect match, my broken soul and my precious cocaine. We are made for one another.

And then.

The aftermath.

The pain. The ache in my jaw. My tongue raw from biting down on it. Sinuses inflamed and blocked. Nostrils burning, bleeding.

The depleted bank account.

The self-loathing.

So. I pull out that tiny white bag and draw up another line to bliss.

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Image by Stevepb off Pixaby

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