You fall asleep in one reality, and wake up in another. The streets, the buildings, and general settings; these things do not necessarily change, but the people do. In one distant reality, sweet Mary was not an angel-headed youthquaker who used street narcotics around the clock, no; she was someone completely different. Back then, before she ran away from home, before she stumbled into Creekwell City like me and all the other nobos; she was known amongst citizens of her small town as ‘Saint Mary’, the pure and innocent girl next door. She lived in a beautiful home with her loving parents, a small place a few blocks from town-hall. Mary was very close to her family; she spent her time reading, praying, helping out her father at the shop, and ingesting government-issued junk on holidays and family gatherings. But everything changed when out of nowhere; her father murdered her mother, and tried to take Mary’s life as well.
“It’s a lie!” her father roared as he broke into Mary’s room right after shooting her mother, he held the gun in trembling hands, with tears in his eyes. She jumped out of her second floor window, and ran for her life. The sound of a gunshot followed her, but no bullets came, no blood, nothing. That’s the moment Mary realized her father had shot himself after killing her mother, and after trying to kill his daughter. In her mind, Mary believed that god had forgotten about her, so she forgot about him in return, and set out to do everything in her power to destroy herself just to forget all the evil she had witnessed, but for some reason, that was not possible. Mary walked into the city one evening when the hail was pouring waist-high, the streets were empty, except for the people who had appointments at the trade office to receive their weekly dose of junk.
At that time, I was still illegally dealing government-issued junk to those who had already taken their bouts, but wanted more. I was standing in a corner near a whore-house with the collar of my trench-coat popped up to protect my scrawny neck from the cold. I was fiddling with the stash to see how much was left when I noticed the figure of a woman in summer attire and boots walking in my direction. Her fiery eyes burnt right through me, she approached me with a confident swagger.
“You carryin’?” she hissed.
“What of it?”
She glared for a few seconds, and then folded her arms.
“You carrin’?” she asked again.
“Yeah,” I answered “Gov. shit, high quality, best in the city.”
“Gimme all you’ve got.”
“Got coins?” I asked.
“No, I’ve got this.” with that, she grabbed my crotch, and pressed her body against mine.
I didn’t even think about it, I slipped her a teleportation pill, slugged one myself and we were in my apartment in no time. In the dim light of my room, I watched her as she jammed a needle in her neck once and in her small breasts a few more times. She took off her wet cloths and threw them on the bare floor. The sight of her naked body drove me insane; I touched her skin, and began kissing her. Three seconds later, she kneed me in the balls, and then punched my face, instantly breaking my nose.
“You ain’t getting any.” She said in a monotone.
“Okay…” I grunted holding my aching groin with one hand, and my bleeding nose with the other.
“Good, name’s Mary.”
She loaded up another syringe, crouched down near me, kissed my neck, and stabbed me with the needle pushing down on the plastic piston. I looked up at her and for the first time, I saw her smiling at me.
“My name is Gretly,” I said “But you can call me Mr. Gretly.”
For the next three hours (Or was it days? I’m not sure.), we spent the time in my apartment smoking, doing junk hits, and talking. She told me her story, and I told her mine as we sat cross-legged facing each other in the middle of what was supposed to be my living room, with a black candle burning between us. We spoke of everything, anything, and nothing. Of the meaning behind the mystical principals and the mindfulness of visions witnessed during the time when junk has reached its primary explosion in the brain as it molders inside the human skull. And coloring of grief and madness and psychology and spirituality and prostitution and politics and mythology and theology and grasping the wisdoms of one Zen master I’ve met in another reality who spoke with an accent unknown to me which sounded like the crackling of an old time ham-radio which was once or twice used a few years back to demonstrate a proficiency of a Morse coded message which was supposed to be delivered to the old man who tended the caverns of eternal vengeance near the valley of mystical illumination. Lightning struck outside on the lonely streets of Creekwell City, sweet Mary and I were sinking down an infinite pit of irrational thought. The reminiscence of that moment seems like a far-off hallucination, yet I remember the words she spoke before straddling me, making me perpetually in love with her.
“Your mind is twisted, Mr. Gretly.” She said “How can I resist it?”