Drugs and Shadows

Memoirs/Personal Essay
Word Count: 1,963
Title: DRUGS AND SHADOWS: A reflection for the Ghetto

DRUGS AND SHADOWS: A reflection for the Ghetto
by Rosa Irene Warner


* * * *
Journal Entry
July 20th, 2003

Poe’s Opium

Poe’s opium clung to the air of his small cottage. I imagine it flavoring his senses—reminding him of sweeter moments. Poe had genius, unparalleled, yet he chose to dull his senses. He fled from his demons, as all men do, and he lost his faith shortly after she passed. His hazel-gray eyes dulled, his slight build slumped, and a few years later, the world lost its scribe.

Poe’s opium lived on.

This self-proclaimed writer has one thing in common with the legend Edgar Allen Poe; she, too, published her first novel by the age of nineteen. Yet, she refuses to see the other similarities. She is unwilling to admit that when her mood darkens her writing becomes almost merciless. Those are the moments when she is forced to remember the things she longs to forget.

A single image fills her head—a subtle glow in the still of the night. A crack pipe casts its shadow across an illuminated face; he is standing there completely unchanged. She opens her eyes and the image disappears; she picks up the pen and slowly starts to write. Her precision is calculated, bordering frantic; she refuses to accept some things are beyond understanding.
~ R.I. Warner

My experimentation with narcotics began at the age of two. My toddler mind was captured by curious so I devoured an entire sack of weed. Neither of my parents rushed me to the hospital and the only medical attention I received was delivered in the form of a leather strap. My father flew into a tyrannical raid when he discovered I had eaten his stash.
In my adult life people have asked, “Wouldn’t you like a little something to help take the edge off?” Perhaps they assume that I desire a substance to dull the razors of my slicing diatribes. But I don’t want to sedate the beast lingering in my mind.
Isn’t that what he did? Didn’t he dull his senses? Didn’t he hide from the echoes and shades rising up from his past? A forgotten past. How desperate was he? What was he thinking when he decided to silenced his nerve-wracking screams?
Silence.
I never wanted that. I would never deny my mind or spirit pain. Pain alone has maintained my humanity. But somewhere along the path of his life he forgot to be afraid; he forgot to fear losing himself.


This is the novel I never envisioned writing. I didn’t want to grasp those painful memories, but most importantly I never wanted to immortalize them on paper. I preferred to live in a warm state of denial. After all don’t we all long for a childhood full of happy memories? Even if those memories never existed.



Journal Entry
October 22nd, 2003

Paradox:

Some part of me remained linked to her so I can recall with unmistakable clarity the night her life was changed forever. I remember, with quiet detachment, those melancholy events. Her actions seemed fruitful at first, and then gradually they transformed into unmistakable devastation.
The ritual of adolescent mating takes hours of preparation. She stripped off her clothing and stepped into the stream of scalding water. She winced in pain as her caramel-colored skin reddened and suddenly resembled a desert sunset. Reaching for the bottle of perfumed body wash, she scrubbed her skin until it was raw.
“Rinse.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible.
Pouring out fruit-scented shampoo, she lathered her hair frantically, but she had forgotten to close her eyes, and they began to burn.
“Rinse,” she repeated.
She stood under the water and removed all traces of shampoo from her hair. Gingerly, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed her skin dry. Applying toothpaste to the brush she scrubbed her teeth until her gums bled.
With precision and speed she applied lotion, powdered her undergarments, dabbed fragrance, applied makeup, hair gel, and deodorant. Reaching into her closet she carefully selected a garment designed to flash ass and curves. She pushed her breasts upwards and for all intents and purposes she resembled a Thanksgiving turkey, waiting to be carved.
“Smile,” she prompted herself.
That’s right, pretty girl, smile. Think that you look good. Know that you look good. She looked good enough to be his prey. She wanted to be his prey.

Dress her in pretty clothes for Daddy.
Oh angel, don’t you look special! You’re my special girl.

I watched the angel through detached eyes. She smiles sweetly, and she believes that image equals adoration. She walks past her roommates, and they whistle and jeer, openly expressing their approval of promiscuity. She answers them with a coy smile and softly offers her explanation, “He has a girlfriend.”
Their expressions change from approval to astonishment, and they tease her playfully, “You are so bad!”
And she smiles. She is a bad girl.

Strong, calloused hands stroke her pre-pubescent flesh. She is four, almost five. She is listening to the hushed, frantic moans of this man.
Come on, baby. She tries to close her eyes but he tells her that he needs her. That he loves her. And she believes him.
But what about Mommy?
Hush, baby. We don’t want mommy to think you are a bad girl. Don’t be a bad girl.

She saunters up the stairs. Her legs are shapely and toned. She knocks softly on his door and waits.
“Enter,” he beckons.
I recognize her cool expression: she wants to seduce him. She kisses him gently, and he attempts to hide the passion growing in his body. She enters his apartment, and he hesitates before approaching her. She waits for him to come; they always come.

Alone. A sweaty summer afternoon makes the knots of terror in her stomach more acute. Her palms are sweaty and tears sting her eyes, but she must continue. Frantic. The inconvenient, awkward jerks of her hand must continue. The flesh she grips is strangely hard. The gyrating hips beneath, and even the strained voice beg her to continue.
“Don’t stop,” and he comes.

He is looking at her with adoration and lust and he kisses her softly. She does not wonder if he loves her. She only wants to serve him. She caresses his face, his neck, and his hair. Her every gesture is an attempt to communicate why she is here. They entertain, engage in small talk, and attempt to delay that moment of inevitably. And finally it starts. Kisses of passion followed by embraces of desire. She is relentless but he is patient. He is gentle.
“Strange,” she mutters softly.
She allows him to lead her into his bedroom, he shuts the door behind him and cannot see what transpires. Will she be overcome with tenseness, that subtle fear that consumes her entire body? Will he kiss her softly on the forehead? Does he adore her? Does he need her? Does she need him? Will he whisper softly and hold her delicately as if she were a fragile glass? If he looked into her eyes he would see that is not what she needs. She needs him to recognize, to see, her strength. In the darkness he whispers, “You are so beautiful, baby.”

She lies next to him holding her breath, hoping and wishing, with a child’s sincerity, that she can disappear into herself. She just wants to feel safe. Her wishes are answered by the sudden presence of his body weight smothering her small frame. He enters forcefully and the pain leaves her breathless. She refuses to weep but tears escape her eyes. He kisses her softly, his beard scratching her skin.
I love you. You are so beautiful. I love my beautiful girl.

I can almost hear her thoughts; a faked sigh of bliss, the contrived glance of affection. She kisses him with mock passion and she lies to him using terms of endearment. But she is really lying to herself. She can pretend with everyone but me, because I know the hidden desires of her heart. Secretly, she longs to be loved, she wants to be needed. She is desperate for someone, anyone, to love her. Need.

She has trained her mind to forget, and after those first few moments of terror she forgets everything. But she never found peace. After the actual nightmare ended there was no silencing the tears. And his hands find her even in her dreams. The memories of hot breath, the thrusting pelvis, and the bruises don’t heal. Years would pass before the physical acts would cease, and when they did, his love for her ceased as well. She could never fulfill him, and I watched her as she ran from her demons.

I call out to her from a dark and hidden corner of her mind. “Lie in the arms of your lover, foolish girl. Do you honestly believe that the warmth of his skin against your trembling body can ease the pain? You lie softly in his arms but you remain callous.”
I know he will never want you and he will never love you. And you cannot love him. I feel her soul bleeding and I watch her walk away. As she shuts the door behind her she calls out softly, “Rinse.” He doesn’t stir, lucky for her, and she has no reason to love him.
~R.I. Warner

When I was six years old, I learned that love is not a real emotion. It is an illusion of power and abuse. Numb. Another illusion. He never realized that in those desperate moments, when he longed to numb his senses with a substance, he also alienated me. He left me alone in the wilderness, unprepared. But he went further, and he sedated his mind, and he extinguished our essence forever.
That essence can never be recovered. It cannot be rehabilitated. Nor can it be redeemed. But my father thought prison would wash him clean. Five years of lockdown did not make me proud and it damn sure didn’t make me understand.
Is that why he punishes himself? Is that why he presses that clear glass pipe against his swollen lips? He inhales and slowly drifts away. As he damages his flesh, I am left with unanswered questions that linger in my mind. And my heart is cold and numb. What good is love when you are left alone?
Am I alone in my hell or is my father nearby? Should I turn and ask him “What did she give you that made you love her so?”
He loved her more than he ever loved me, and she is just a whore on a scrawny white horse. Yet he gave her everything. He gave her his money, his pride, and even his organs one by one. And she left him broken and penniless. She locked him in a cage for five years, and finally she stole my lasting and enduring love. I thought nothing could strip that away but he let her take and take until I had nothing left to give, not even forgiveness. And he watched it all…numb and waiting.

My father taught me everything I needed to know about the shadows of the ghetto and the delusion of escape. There is no escape. Not even for me. You cannot escape who you are and what you have become. I know that death will eventually find him; he will be lying in a dark alleyway with a bloated liver and a useless kidney. The world will look upon him with disgust, and they will spit on his cold, lifeless form. He will be seen as a bum; another crack-fiend. Forgotten and unworthy. They did not know him before she stole his soul. Before her, he was my father.

Somewhere in my mind I honestly believe that I can win against the substance that claimed the two men I admired most. That substance destroyed Lord Poe while he mourned a woman. And now it finds a way to claw at this writer and she manipulates my hands. My life is a dark series of illusions, but it is my waking nightmares that haunt and distort. Life is a matter of perspective. This is a distortion, but it became my reality years ago.