Photo by russn_fckr on Unsplash

Fragmented Memories

Akshay Gajria
The Coffeelicious
Published in
7 min readNov 23, 2017

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We pull a drag. Puff. Puff. We pass.

Our greedy little eyes are fixed on the little red bulb at the end of the joint, glowing, fading, glowing again; the joints grows shorter with each drag, going around in circles.

Just one more drag. I need it. I want it. Will it reach me?

Smoke fills my lungs, eyes bleed, the chemicals hit my body, entering my blood stream, delivering it to the brain. A slow smile spreads over me as I grow numb — happiness indeed.

Home.

“Why are your eyes red?” they ask their regular question.

“Just tired,” I mumble, my regular answer.

“Where were you?”

“Out.”

“With whom?”

“Just leave me alone!”

The door of my room bangs shut like the door of my life through which my parents will never enter.

Why can’t they just let me live?

“I want a bong, man. These joints just don’t cut it anymore.”

“Let’s make one. I have a bottle.”

“Yeah dude! That’s the spirit.”

We sit with an empty bottle between us, wishing it were a bong. He lights another joint passing it to me. We smoke in circles.

My chest hurts. I ignore it. I cough. I ignore it. I cough some more.

It’ll go away. My body can deal with it. It’ll go away.

I cough again, and this time the phlegm fills my mouth. I rush to the basin and spit it out. I look at it: Black mucus.

Was that really inside me? I see something else, something red — Blood.

The person in the mirror looks at me with sad, red eyes. They seem to ask, What are you doing?

I don’t meet those eyes. I don’t want to face them.

Ignore. It’ll go away.

I hear a mocking laugh. But there is no one there with me. I look back at my reflection and he is the one laughing.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

That’s all I can think of. My steps are hasty. I haven’t had a hit all day.

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