The Scientist

Steampunk Science Fiction

In that instant I had become the black Einstein, contemplating the atoms of the universe and how I connected to all the matter around me, from my friends who sat among me, part-taking of this drug induced experience now that I was showing signs of controlling the wild blood cells that coursed through my veins like those fine machines of adrenaline at the Indy 500. My eyes locked on to every possible detail of my room, the red walls seemed to scream at me with their ketchup tint and the light dimly reflecting off the coating. I didn’t paint this room, some young aspiring model had done the honors before I arrived here as her black replacement, I remember thinking how distasteful her eye was for color schemes.

The wood floor, with its peeling boards and cracks all over that shed splinters that never actually punctured skin but looked menacing, not a true danger but a passive danger that sought to challenge your resolve in stepping into the space and taking your rightful place in my circle of friends. Yes, everyone in that circle in that room was invited, hand selected. The energy this room conjures and emanates is a reward to be earned through making it past the hardest obstacle, me. Oh, I know I’m difficult, I know this with such certainty that I often warn people before they further embark on those seas of getting to know me.

Reality became so much more than reality as the cocaine was absorbed. It became this outer body experience where I saw everything that had happened, as it happened, as if I was watching it from above. It became a new story, seen with new eyes, but the ending I already knew—I would lose as I always have. Even in that moment, with close friends around me, I could see the present as clear as I saw the past, and was as sure of the future as I was of the now.

It was a wonder drug, nothing like the high I get from weed, of which I only smoke kush, a strain that seems to paint my ideas and thoughts in color so to give a more fantastical meaning to all around me. No, coke was more honest, more blatant, more brutal, a colder glimpse into the truth of what was all around me but it kept me from being present in the moment of it. In other words, I found myself thinking of everything to all its possibilities, all its turns good or bad. This was probably the beginning of my relationship falling apart. See, I had come to the point within myself, before I started using coke, that there was no point in pretending about anything in my life. I made it clear I didn’t like where I worked, that I was pretty depressed about it and was sure that my girlfriend was going to leave me, the feeling that coke gave me was a cold look at it, a very emotionless analysis of everything like how a scientist sees the cold facts of every experiment.



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