Journal Of A Desperate Man – Entry #1


I decided I should write it down, before it was too late……


I was in the bathroom, trying to scrape the encrusted blood and sticky residue of cocaine from my nostrils. I grinned at my reflection in the mirror. I was distracted from my stained teeth, by my grey complexion. The whites of my eyes were blood shot and yellowing. The veins in my temples were swollen and pulsing. I shook my head. I could barely recognize the corpse looking back. Just give it a few seconds. I held my breath. Until I felt my heart pumping in my throat. I took a deep breath and glared back.

It’s just me. A moment of self belief trickled back. I’m still here. Still viable.

“How’s it going?” I said, out loud. Deafening, but convincing.

I’m still here.


I returned to the lounge. I’d set the whole thing up perfectly. At least I did three days ago…….or is it four? Fuck it. Scrape another line together. There’s powder everywhere. All over the keyboard, on the record sleeves, under my finger nails. Everytime I lower my face to the mirror, the smell of Diesel from the bag of speed mixes with powder burn.

“Never mix amphetamines with cocaine”, I remember someone saying.

Two paracetamol, one 50mg dihydrocodeine, one sinutab,…….maybe half the blue one. Just half.


I found myself staring through the endlessly looping, muted, pornography on the TV. 60s psychedelic drone. How long? I’m unsure. There’s daylight through the slit in the curtain but I’m unsure of the time of day. The clock is smashed on the floor but I can’t remember why. The only source of reality is on my phone but I can’t focus on it.


I think I’ve just spent over a hour looking through a crack in the curtain. It all started with a horrendous hammering on the door. My heart jumped so hard, I almost puked. I stood very still until the second rally of thudding came. I grabbed the steak knife from the three day old plate on the table and crawled, on my belly, out the lounge door into the hall. I peered round the base of the bannister. A huge black figure, distorted by the glass was blocking the light. Just as I planned to wait until he kicked the door in before I attacked, I felt the moisture dripping down my wrist. Crimson moisture. Grabbing the knife seemed important. How, and where to grab the knife seemed to have passed me by. The sight of the wound was interesting, but the sudden eclipse took priority.


I came round in bed. Well, kind of on the bed. I could hear a loud, industrial, fan and had the corner of a brown, cardboard, envelope sticking in my cheek.

I could just about see a vessel of liquid close by, which I grabbed and consumed. It was more to stop anything coming up than needing to put something inside. I pulled myself straight. Slowly, I tried to reconcile. I remembered watching some porn. Violent. Simulated rape. Arousing. Debauched, arousing,…?

The bedroom door smashed open. The industrial din overwhelms the room, in the shape of a vacuum cleaner. Swiftly followed by Mrs Cline.


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