I Want to Feel a Different Kind of High
A short story about chasing change in a world that’s moving backwards.
Different Kind of High
I surveyed my Venus fly trap, before traipsing out the door for the first time in thirteen days. It was welcoming a small fly to rest on its sticky, veiny bed. Which it eventually, inevitably devours. A stroll through the city has its disastrous reminders. People are poison.
I glanced at the unfamiliar faces that disappeared as they walked past. These people were blowing dense clouds of slow-circulating smoke. Through their cars, through their mouths. But I’m chasing a different kind of high. I followed a stone path ahead rising in rugged perfection. The light played over the grey as if it were the fingers of a pianist upon gentle keys.
As I reached the top of the rocky surface, my feet stood immobile. I disrupted the silence with a scream that shattered my entire body; like a porcelain doll falling on the floor. It left me utterly drained, with my mouth rigid and sore. My eyes watered as the harsh wind whipped the hair across my face.
I watched from a distance while the city I live in slowly deteriorates. The same way a fly does, living inside a Venus fly trap.
