Addiction

Addiction
by Barnali Saha


(Article Published in Many Midnights:http://www.geocities.com/many_midnights/story_10.htm?200931%3E%3C/ul%3E%3Cbr%3E%3Cbr%3E%3Cfont%20size=)

The strange condition still lingers in me like the frail tunes of the jukebox in the bar where I am sitting right now. I feel it has been a part of me when I was born, stretching my whole being in the rack of my mental ambivalence that wanted to disregard the potential influence of my addiction on my life. It is like those outdated rituals that people follow without even knowing why they do so. I think I have a different personality dwelling inside me, sometime talking to me when I am alone. I could listen to its voice--warm, yellow like that barmaid's blouse.

I have heard a lot of them saying that I want to kill myself----but why would I do that? I think these people are an outrageous band of intolerant folks who cannot acknowledge the dark side of humanity.

It is cloudy outside; a branch of an elm tree is bending like the rainbow. The jukebox is louder now. They are playing a hip- hop song. The barmaid is laughing behind the stand, her curly hair falling softly on her half bare brown shoulder. Her yellow blouse is too tight for her--maybe she is trying to look a little thin and hide those muffin- top bulges by wearing a smaller dress size. I light another cigarette, and blow a ring of thin, nebulous smoke to the ceiling. The smoke is slowly rising and then vanishing atop.

I look out the window beside me. The glass is stained and dirty, and blurred. I see a woman in a red coat carrying a rattan gift basket with a pink ribbon on it. I wanted to see what is inside the basket. It is one of those simple, small baskets you get on a discount after a such and such day. The woman slides her hand into the pocket; she is searching for something, and then she brings it out and looks around. I wonder if she could see me; she then unwraps her scarf and carefully ties it around her neck. The tail of the pink ribbon in her basket is shaking in the soft breeze like that one brown leaf on the grass, trembling like a coy mistress at the gentle touch of the wind. The woman looks at me for a second as she crosses the street; it is a cold stare like that of a dead dog.

I turn and face my cigarette; the tip has accumulated a long, thin residuum of ash. I shake the cigarette and the ash breaks into a loose powdery substance and falls on the white, porcelain plate, which I am using as my ashtray. I puff at the cigarette and blow another ring of smoke; it is like the billowing smoke of a chimney. The smoke is a solid substance, tangible and sticky. It is covering my gut, my lungs, and my heart with thick, gray soot. Everywhere I look, I see the dirt and dust. I see it in the lock of the barmaid's curly hair, gleaming in the light of the lantern hanging from the low ceiling. I see soot on the fiddling hands of the man sitting at the bar, grabbing the mug full of frothy beer gleaming in the seemingly dark light, and I wonder how it is going to taste. I puff the cigarette butt and blow the final smokes into the air. I reach for my pockets again and I find something inside them. I pull out my hand and put in the other pocket, this pocket is fluffy with stuffing. I bring out the cigarette papers and the brown, crumbled tobacco leaves, smelling like morning coffee, and then I bring out the magic spice. Soon, it is ready; I puff at it--I am not hungry any more, I am feeling like some ethereal being, like a feather--light and soft. I rise up from my bench and decide to leave the bar. The barmaid didn't wish me good night today; I pushed the small glass door, the bell didn't chime like everyday.

The half-decayed street is lonesome again, except for the blurry- eyed lamp posts there were no mortal beings around. A crushed Coke can is lying on the sidewalk; I kick it hard. The street is a lonely devil-- my permanent sojourn; but I seem to be lost today. I cannot find my shadow, have I left it in the bar? I turn back and see nothing, I slide my hands into my left pocket, a half dead cigarette is waiting to be puffed; I bring it out, light it, and walk on. I am ambling down the ordinary street, I am in no hurry. I was walking down this street earlier this evening when something exploded in me, it was a deafening crash. The collision left my vision blurred-- am I getting blind or something? I have this innate fear of losing my sight, I don’t know how I gathered it, but it has always been there. I now take the road that turns off at the highway; I puff at the cigarette and whistle to myself all the while.

"Oh there you are," I am startled by my own voice. I see myself, yes, it is definitely me. I lean to have a closer look; the stink of the dustbin is making me sick. I see myself lying on the ground, beside the bin, cold and pale. A number of maggots have accumulated on my sunken cheek, which now look hollowed, almost has a skeletal resemblance. My half opened eyes are staring at me, as if trying to decipher some hidden code of life. My body is stiff and empty; the ants are eating it away. I guess people haven’t noticed it yet, maybe they will find me tomorrow, I reckon what they will do with me, will they throw it in the bin like a dead dog or will they send it to the morgue and preserve it as a specimen-- I wish I could talk to them. Wait, there is something under my hands, I see some white paper like think under my hollow palm, hiding beneath my bony, thin fingers. Oh, it is the half-smoked cigarette I am smoking now. The cigarette is almost dead now I take the final puff and throw it beside my body.