Crack: it gives you wings
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story of life in a crack house.
_____________________________________________________________________
I’m not going to give you my name; you wouldn’t use it anyway. You all refer to us generically. Calling us by name would admit that we have personality, individuality or even a soul. There are those of us who live on the fringes of society who occasionally peer in. Our hopes and curiosity have survived the addiction; we need our ‘society fix’. We hear what you say; you call us insects. No better than a flattened cockroach, stuck to the bottom of your leather soled shoes by its own lifeless fluids. I was born in a crack house, lived in a crack house, existed with crack addicts and became a crack addict. This was my fate. It was determined before I was conscience enough to make decisions, that I would live my life on the edge of what was considered civilisation.
I remember my first hit as well as I remember the last. I observed as they drew the smoke in from the bottle, slowly at first to draw in the crack until the chamber was filled with creamy smoke, then they would breath it in fast and deep. The trick was to hold it in your lungs as long as possible. The longer you could hold your breath with the sweetness in your lungs the higher you could get. Initially I was hesitant; but the urge to try it had become stronger as I aged. Then, in a moment of forced confidence and driven by desire and desperation I took the substance into my body. At first it was relaxing, I felt like I was floating, content, I felt a sense of self actualisation that I had previously only dreamed of. After five minutes a rush of excitement surged through me like a rocket heading for outer space. It was thrilling and I flew higher and higher almost to the ceiling before I came to a comfortable rest against the once hard walls that now felt as comfortable as a chesterfield chair. It was in essence, pure unadulterated bliss. I was addicted after that, it was like I had been fed for the first time.
The crack house was a darkened place most of the time, even in the high of the summer months when temperatures could be thirty five and the sun was so large in the sky it seemed to be sitting on top of the buildings, the house seemed black, damp and cold. Three of the four rooms of the house were not used; everyone congregated, got high, lived and died in one room. There was no need to visit the other rooms, this is where the crack was, this is where people rocked up, smoked and drifted off into a world they’d literally been itching to get to. The carpet on the floor of the room was trodden and its colour indistinguishable; it was littered with silver foil that would glisten like diamonds when a ray of sunshine managed to penetrate the filth coated curtains. The yellowed walls which acted like the bars of a jail cell were barren of hope. I often wondered, in my high times, if people would notice or feel more human if maybe there was a painting or a poster on the wall, anything to give the house the feel of a home. Everyone sat, slept and smoked on their own mattress; usually a combination of flattened boxes, newspapers and old discarded sheets or clothes. When someone died in the house the materials from their bed were distributed and used to increase the comfort of the other mattresses. The overwhelming smell in the room was what really gave it its hell-like atmosphere; the acidic smell of the ammonia stung your nostrils before they were rejuvenated by the sweet smell of the smouldering crack. When you were high all you could smell was the sweetness. However, when the high had gone the stench of stale faeces, dried urine and decomposing skin was vomit inducing.
My education had been informal. My only skills were crack related. Being born into a house of addiction offers little in the way of convention. I watched the people intently as they would make the bongs: first they would take a cola bottle and strip it of its advertising leaving it naked and transparent. Then, taking a lighter, they would burn a small hole in the side of the bottle, no wider than a five pence piece. They’d then fill a quarter of the bottle with water before covering the drinking hole with foil and piercing the foil with tiny pin sized holes. The bong was almost ready. As the shell of a ball point pen was pushed through the burnt hole in the side of the bottle the bong was complete. There was a feeling of joy as it was placed into the centre of the floor in preparation. It was a symbol of hope, a vehicle of good times, a statue in the middle of the room formed with adoring hands. When it was complete their attention turned to making the crack. A tea spoon of cocaine would be scooped up and placed on a table spoon with the care a small child exhibits when she picks up virgin snow for the first time. Then the same amount of bicarbonate of soda would be placed on the table spoon and the two would be mixed in a pool of ammonia with the end of a match. While the ingredients were being heated with a lighter placed under the spoon, a cigarette would be lit and left in an ashtray to burn its self down to the filter. I would stare mesmerized as the brown tobacco would slowly form a pile of silver grey ash. Soon the table spoon would contain a frothy white and bubbling liquid; it was now time to let it cool and extract the solidified crack crystals; this was achieved by continually scraping a knife on the inside of the spoon leaving the crack sitting high on the lip at one end while the useless liquid residue lay at the other; much like a king presiding over his minions. A small amount of ash would be taken and put on top of the bong monument followed by the desired amount of crack (the ash would help facilitate the burning of the crack).
The first time I saw my reflection was a harrowing and life changing day; I’m not sure how old I was but it was long after my youth, I was fully grown. There were usually no mirrors in the house; I don’t suppose crack heads have any real desire to face their own reality every day, they definitely exhibit little narcissistic behaviour. When they stand trial in front of God at the Holy gates vanity will not be one of the seven deadly sins they are accused of. A young girl came into the house, I’d never seen her before but I knew she was different to everyone else. Firstly she wore make up. Wearing make up in a house where people haven’t washed for months on end certainly makes you stand out. She was a peacock in a world populated by pigeons. The dress she wore was bright, flowery and seemed to dance around the room as she walked; in stark contrast to the blackened existence of the rest of the room. She sat at the end of one of the mattresses and waited for her turn to suck in the milky white smoke from the bong. The bong was passed to her immediately and there was no exchange of money; this in its self was strange.
Dens like ours operate on the fringe of sociological norms but they do have rules. Firstly the person who makes the bong goes first, the bong is then passed clock wise around the room until everyone has had their hit. No one takes a second hit until the bong has passed around everyone in the room. It is then up to the receiver of the first hit to decide when the second round begins. This moderates the speed at which the crack is smoked, ensuring it lasts as long as possible as well as making sure everyone receives a fair share. More importantly than any of this is the rule ‘if you’ve got it, give it, if you haven’t, take it’. By following this rule, the den ensures that there is a fairly constant supply of crack. If there’s seven people living in the house there’s a pretty good chance that at least one person that day would have the funds to by the cocaine; by sharing they would guarantee themselves a hit on the days they couldn’t afford it.
The young girl took her hit and lay back on the floor. I watched in confusion as five minutes later she was led away into another room still in a haze, by the guy who’d bought the crack that day. I hadn’t known anyone spending prolonged periods of time in another room before. There were noises coming from the room, but it didn’t sound like conversation.
I moved hesitantly towards where the girl had been sitting. She had left a small cracked mirror on the floor beside the circle of people getting high; and there I was. I understood in that moment why I was treated with such disdain. Why people never spoke to me, and if they did, with an air of aggression and distaste. I didn’t blame them for shooing me away if I got too close. The movement through my thin stick like limbs was stiff and robotic as I moved from side to side looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes were too far apart and were lacking in emotion or beauty. My nose elongated and out of proportion with my face and the skin on my legs and arms was tight and they were covered in hairs; unbecoming of a female and unattractive. I was ugly.
My movements so far had been restricted to night time; from dusk till dawn. Most of us were creatures of the night, there were less people around to judge us, avoid us or persecute us. Having seen myself in the mirror that day I was even more removed from the people of the house, I became a self imposed recluse. I would wait until everyone had passed out before I took my hits. I had previously been more brazen in my approach; I would get high when they got high. I always knew when it was time; the combination of carbon dioxide and the sweet crack smell emanating from the sweat of the people in the room. The mirror that was accustomed to reflecting the beautifully painted face of that young girl had now shown the ugliness of my soul with equal clarity. After that I hid in the damp corners; deep in thought and drowning in a sea of self pity. I reckoned that almost three quarters of my life was over and I’d never left this unholy place. I stared longingly at the window and wondered what the world outside could offer me. My life so far had been a still born dream. But the window remained closed; my escape remained impossible.
One afternoon I woke to loud screams coming from the room next door. They belonged to the girl with the painted face. She staggered into the room; she was naked and her stomach and face were lacerated. I could smell the blood oozing from the cuts. Her eyes dashed across the room. She threw the curtains covering the windows to the side and an intense blinding ray of light burst into the room like an unwanted guest, causing the residents to scurry into corners. As she forced the dirt sealed window open the same guy who had taken her into the room the first time stormed in holding a large kitchen knife. Turning to face him, rigid with fear the beautiful young girl could only watch as he plunged the knife into her stomach. A ladder of wounds covered her body as he repeatedly drove the knife into her whilst she slid down the wall. I knew then that it was time to go. I couldn’t spend the rest of my days in this forsaken hole of addiction and hell. The window was open it would be my only chance. The only thing that stood between me and my window of opportunity was him. I opened up my wings, pushed myself from the wall and flew towards him. His eyes, red with rage, fixed themselves upon me. His arms flapped and swatted in my direction causing the blood from the knife he was still holding to paint the room red. Each slap of his hand got closer, but I was determined, I was not going to die here. I flew within an inch of his scowling face and riding on a gust of air I gave a great thrust of my wings and out of the window I flew and into the warmth of the sun, never to return.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story of life in a crack house.
_____________________________________________________________________
I’m not going to give you my name; you wouldn’t use it anyway. You all refer to us generically. Calling us by name would admit that we have personality, individuality or even a soul. There are those of us who live on the fringes of society who occasionally peer in. Our hopes and curiosity have survived the addiction; we need our ‘society fix’. We hear what you say; you call us insects. No better than a flattened cockroach, stuck to the bottom of your leather soled shoes by its own lifeless fluids. I was born in a crack house, lived in a crack house, existed with crack addicts and became a crack addict. This was my fate. It was determined before I was conscience enough to make decisions, that I would live my life on the edge of what was considered civilisation.
I remember my first hit as well as I remember the last. I observed as they drew the smoke in from the bottle, slowly at first to draw in the crack until the chamber was filled with creamy smoke, then they would breath it in fast and deep. The trick was to hold it in your lungs as long as possible. The longer you could hold your breath with the sweetness in your lungs the higher you could get. Initially I was hesitant; but the urge to try it had become stronger as I aged. Then, in a moment of forced confidence and driven by desire and desperation I took the substance into my body. At first it was relaxing, I felt like I was floating, content, I felt a sense of self actualisation that I had previously only dreamed of. After five minutes a rush of excitement surged through me like a rocket heading for outer space. It was thrilling and I flew higher and higher almost to the ceiling before I came to a comfortable rest against the once hard walls that now felt as comfortable as a chesterfield chair. It was in essence, pure unadulterated bliss. I was addicted after that, it was like I had been fed for the first time.
The crack house was a darkened place most of the time, even in the high of the summer months when temperatures could be thirty five and the sun was so large in the sky it seemed to be sitting on top of the buildings, the house seemed black, damp and cold. Three of the four rooms of the house were not used; everyone congregated, got high, lived and died in one room. There was no need to visit the other rooms, this is where the crack was, this is where people rocked up, smoked and drifted off into a world they’d literally been itching to get to. The carpet on the floor of the room was trodden and its colour indistinguishable; it was littered with silver foil that would glisten like diamonds when a ray of sunshine managed to penetrate the filth coated curtains. The yellowed walls which acted like the bars of a jail cell were barren of hope. I often wondered, in my high times, if people would notice or feel more human if maybe there was a painting or a poster on the wall, anything to give the house the feel of a home. Everyone sat, slept and smoked on their own mattress; usually a combination of flattened boxes, newspapers and old discarded sheets or clothes. When someone died in the house the materials from their bed were distributed and used to increase the comfort of the other mattresses. The overwhelming smell in the room was what really gave it its hell-like atmosphere; the acidic smell of the ammonia stung your nostrils before they were rejuvenated by the sweet smell of the smouldering crack. When you were high all you could smell was the sweetness. However, when the high had gone the stench of stale faeces, dried urine and decomposing skin was vomit inducing.
My education had been informal. My only skills were crack related. Being born into a house of addiction offers little in the way of convention. I watched the people intently as they would make the bongs: first they would take a cola bottle and strip it of its advertising leaving it naked and transparent. Then, taking a lighter, they would burn a small hole in the side of the bottle, no wider than a five pence piece. They’d then fill a quarter of the bottle with water before covering the drinking hole with foil and piercing the foil with tiny pin sized holes. The bong was almost ready. As the shell of a ball point pen was pushed through the burnt hole in the side of the bottle the bong was complete. There was a feeling of joy as it was placed into the centre of the floor in preparation. It was a symbol of hope, a vehicle of good times, a statue in the middle of the room formed with adoring hands. When it was complete their attention turned to making the crack. A tea spoon of cocaine would be scooped up and placed on a table spoon with the care a small child exhibits when she picks up virgin snow for the first time. Then the same amount of bicarbonate of soda would be placed on the table spoon and the two would be mixed in a pool of ammonia with the end of a match. While the ingredients were being heated with a lighter placed under the spoon, a cigarette would be lit and left in an ashtray to burn its self down to the filter. I would stare mesmerized as the brown tobacco would slowly form a pile of silver grey ash. Soon the table spoon would contain a frothy white and bubbling liquid; it was now time to let it cool and extract the solidified crack crystals; this was achieved by continually scraping a knife on the inside of the spoon leaving the crack sitting high on the lip at one end while the useless liquid residue lay at the other; much like a king presiding over his minions. A small amount of ash would be taken and put on top of the bong monument followed by the desired amount of crack (the ash would help facilitate the burning of the crack).
The first time I saw my reflection was a harrowing and life changing day; I’m not sure how old I was but it was long after my youth, I was fully grown. There were usually no mirrors in the house; I don’t suppose crack heads have any real desire to face their own reality every day, they definitely exhibit little narcissistic behaviour. When they stand trial in front of God at the Holy gates vanity will not be one of the seven deadly sins they are accused of. A young girl came into the house, I’d never seen her before but I knew she was different to everyone else. Firstly she wore make up. Wearing make up in a house where people haven’t washed for months on end certainly makes you stand out. She was a peacock in a world populated by pigeons. The dress she wore was bright, flowery and seemed to dance around the room as she walked; in stark contrast to the blackened existence of the rest of the room. She sat at the end of one of the mattresses and waited for her turn to suck in the milky white smoke from the bong. The bong was passed to her immediately and there was no exchange of money; this in its self was strange.
Dens like ours operate on the fringe of sociological norms but they do have rules. Firstly the person who makes the bong goes first, the bong is then passed clock wise around the room until everyone has had their hit. No one takes a second hit until the bong has passed around everyone in the room. It is then up to the receiver of the first hit to decide when the second round begins. This moderates the speed at which the crack is smoked, ensuring it lasts as long as possible as well as making sure everyone receives a fair share. More importantly than any of this is the rule ‘if you’ve got it, give it, if you haven’t, take it’. By following this rule, the den ensures that there is a fairly constant supply of crack. If there’s seven people living in the house there’s a pretty good chance that at least one person that day would have the funds to by the cocaine; by sharing they would guarantee themselves a hit on the days they couldn’t afford it.
The young girl took her hit and lay back on the floor. I watched in confusion as five minutes later she was led away into another room still in a haze, by the guy who’d bought the crack that day. I hadn’t known anyone spending prolonged periods of time in another room before. There were noises coming from the room, but it didn’t sound like conversation.
I moved hesitantly towards where the girl had been sitting. She had left a small cracked mirror on the floor beside the circle of people getting high; and there I was. I understood in that moment why I was treated with such disdain. Why people never spoke to me, and if they did, with an air of aggression and distaste. I didn’t blame them for shooing me away if I got too close. The movement through my thin stick like limbs was stiff and robotic as I moved from side to side looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes were too far apart and were lacking in emotion or beauty. My nose elongated and out of proportion with my face and the skin on my legs and arms was tight and they were covered in hairs; unbecoming of a female and unattractive. I was ugly.
My movements so far had been restricted to night time; from dusk till dawn. Most of us were creatures of the night, there were less people around to judge us, avoid us or persecute us. Having seen myself in the mirror that day I was even more removed from the people of the house, I became a self imposed recluse. I would wait until everyone had passed out before I took my hits. I had previously been more brazen in my approach; I would get high when they got high. I always knew when it was time; the combination of carbon dioxide and the sweet crack smell emanating from the sweat of the people in the room. The mirror that was accustomed to reflecting the beautifully painted face of that young girl had now shown the ugliness of my soul with equal clarity. After that I hid in the damp corners; deep in thought and drowning in a sea of self pity. I reckoned that almost three quarters of my life was over and I’d never left this unholy place. I stared longingly at the window and wondered what the world outside could offer me. My life so far had been a still born dream. But the window remained closed; my escape remained impossible.
One afternoon I woke to loud screams coming from the room next door. They belonged to the girl with the painted face. She staggered into the room; she was naked and her stomach and face were lacerated. I could smell the blood oozing from the cuts. Her eyes dashed across the room. She threw the curtains covering the windows to the side and an intense blinding ray of light burst into the room like an unwanted guest, causing the residents to scurry into corners. As she forced the dirt sealed window open the same guy who had taken her into the room the first time stormed in holding a large kitchen knife. Turning to face him, rigid with fear the beautiful young girl could only watch as he plunged the knife into her stomach. A ladder of wounds covered her body as he repeatedly drove the knife into her whilst she slid down the wall. I knew then that it was time to go. I couldn’t spend the rest of my days in this forsaken hole of addiction and hell. The window was open it would be my only chance. The only thing that stood between me and my window of opportunity was him. I opened up my wings, pushed myself from the wall and flew towards him. His eyes, red with rage, fixed themselves upon me. His arms flapped and swatted in my direction causing the blood from the knife he was still holding to paint the room red. Each slap of his hand got closer, but I was determined, I was not going to die here. I flew within an inch of his scowling face and riding on a gust of air I gave a great thrust of my wings and out of the window I flew and into the warmth of the sun, never to return.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
