| General Fiction posted June 3, 2024 | Chapters: |
-Prologue- 1... 
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Rock bottom
A chapter in the book DUEL with the DEVIL
DUEL with the DEVIL - Prologue
by Jim Wile
Prologue
Charlotte, North Carolina
March 2022
I wake up this morning feeling good. I feel like this every morning when I wake up. Have since I began taking Dipraxa. I get out of bed, wade through the mess of dirty clothes I’ve left everywhere, and make my way to the bathroom. After relieving myself, I look in the mirror.
The image would be shocking if I cared. In two months, I have gone from a not-bad-looking, clean-shaven 31-year-old guy with normal-length, sandy-brown hair and a good build for my 6’2” frame to a beanpole with a permanent bedhead of longish, greasy, unkempt hair and a thick, scraggly beard. I also probably stink so bad that, again, if I cared, I’m sure I would be totally grossed out. No matter; I’ll be taking a shower tomorrow.
I feel pain-free now, which is better than I’ve felt in years since the chronic pain I suffered has been vanquished.
I wend my way through the jumble of clothes on the floor over to my dresser. My underwear drawer is empty, as is my sock drawer because I haven’t done laundry in a while. I grab one of the two remaining T-shirts from the T-shirt drawer and head over to the closet to find a pair of pants. There aren’t any hanging up, so I find an old, holey pair of sweat pants on the floor that are way too large in the waist for me now. Fortunately, it has a drawstring rather than an elastic band around the waist. I also scrounge around for a pair of matching socks. Realizing this is a habit that isn’t an important consideration anymore, I just grab a random pair from the floor. I forego underwear and pull on the sweatpants, tying the drawstring as tightly as I can; it can only be tightened so much. It barely holds my pants up.
I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen. Flipping on the light switch reveals a complete pigsty. Dirty dishes are everywhere, and the place smells like rotten fruit. Ants are crawling over the counters and floor. A couple of old pizza boxes are piled in the corner next to the overflowing trashcan. But none of this bothers me.
I open the fridge, but there’s almost nothing left in there that is edible. I pull out a bottle of flat Coke and drain the last few ounces. From the meat drawer, I pull out and open a dented pack containing a couple pieces of greenish-looking bologna. I close up the pack and put it back in the drawer. All that’s left are a few limp carrots in the vegetable drawer, so I pull one out and begin munching.
I’ve pretty much quit eating because I never feel hungry. I no longer leave the house to buy groceries or for any other reason.
My wife left two months ago, and I miss her terribly, but I don’t feel particularly bad about anything else. As I said, I feel good. Nothing special, just a comfortable feeling. But that will soon change as I reach for the bottle of Dipraxa and take five. In about 10 minutes, I will be on cloud 99 again, feeling the most intense pleasure you can possibly imagine—a greater high than the most potent narcotic can ever give you.
I will do this again—take five more—four hours from now and every four hours for the rest of the day. The bottle will be empty tonight, and there won’t be any more after that. Tomorrow I’ll begin my comeback and my return to normalcy—hopefully. This experiment will be over. What I will do after that, I’m not sure yet.
Who am I kidding? These last two months have definitely not been an experiment. I knew full well how this was going to go as soon as I had that first double-dose of Dipraxa. But for the fact that it wouldn't immediately kill me, there was nothing new to learn. I take that back; I did learn that 500 mg is the dose to take if you want the maximum high.
At least I’d had enough self-awareness to realize that after creating this last batch, I had to get rid of all my raw materials so that I couldn’t easily make any more. Maybe now I’ll attempt to fight off this addiction, for that’s surely what it is. Perhaps not a physical one, but a powerful one nonetheless.
How did I get to this point? Now there’s a tale worth telling. Maybe by rehashing it all, I’ll get a clue about how to proceed with my life.
Prologue
Charlotte, North Carolina
March 2022
I wake up this morning feeling good. I feel like this every morning when I wake up. Have since I began taking Dipraxa. I get out of bed, wade through the mess of dirty clothes I’ve left everywhere, and make my way to the bathroom. After relieving myself, I look in the mirror.
The image would be shocking if I cared. In two months, I have gone from a not-bad-looking, clean-shaven 31-year-old guy with normal-length, sandy-brown hair and a good build for my 6’2” frame to a beanpole with a permanent bedhead of longish, greasy, unkempt hair and a thick, scraggly beard. I also probably stink so bad that, again, if I cared, I’m sure I would be totally grossed out. No matter; I’ll be taking a shower tomorrow.
I feel pain-free now, which is better than I’ve felt in years since the chronic pain I suffered has been vanquished.
I wend my way through the jumble of clothes on the floor over to my dresser. My underwear drawer is empty, as is my sock drawer because I haven’t done laundry in a while. I grab one of the two remaining T-shirts from the T-shirt drawer and head over to the closet to find a pair of pants. There aren’t any hanging up, so I find an old, holey pair of sweat pants on the floor that are way too large in the waist for me now. Fortunately, it has a drawstring rather than an elastic band around the waist. I also scrounge around for a pair of matching socks. Realizing this is a habit that isn’t an important consideration anymore, I just grab a random pair from the floor. I forego underwear and pull on the sweatpants, tying the drawstring as tightly as I can; it can only be tightened so much. It barely holds my pants up.
I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen. Flipping on the light switch reveals a complete pigsty. Dirty dishes are everywhere, and the place smells like rotten fruit. Ants are crawling over the counters and floor. A couple of old pizza boxes are piled in the corner next to the overflowing trashcan. But none of this bothers me.
I open the fridge, but there’s almost nothing left in there that is edible. I pull out a bottle of flat Coke and drain the last few ounces. From the meat drawer, I pull out and open a dented pack containing a couple pieces of greenish-looking bologna. I close up the pack and put it back in the drawer. All that’s left are a few limp carrots in the vegetable drawer, so I pull one out and begin munching.
I’ve pretty much quit eating because I never feel hungry. I no longer leave the house to buy groceries or for any other reason.
My wife left two months ago, and I miss her terribly, but I don’t feel particularly bad about anything else. As I said, I feel good. Nothing special, just a comfortable feeling. But that will soon change as I reach for the bottle of Dipraxa and take five. In about 10 minutes, I will be on cloud 99 again, feeling the most intense pleasure you can possibly imagine—a greater high than the most potent narcotic can ever give you.
I will do this again—take five more—four hours from now and every four hours for the rest of the day. The bottle will be empty tonight, and there won’t be any more after that. Tomorrow I’ll begin my comeback and my return to normalcy—hopefully. This experiment will be over. What I will do after that, I’m not sure yet.
Who am I kidding? These last two months have definitely not been an experiment. I knew full well how this was going to go as soon as I had that first double-dose of Dipraxa. But for the fact that it wouldn't immediately kill me, there was nothing new to learn. I take that back; I did learn that 500 mg is the dose to take if you want the maximum high.
At least I’d had enough self-awareness to realize that after creating this last batch, I had to get rid of all my raw materials so that I couldn’t easily make any more. Maybe now I’ll attempt to fight off this addiction, for that’s surely what it is. Perhaps not a physical one, but a powerful one nonetheless.
How did I get to this point? Now there’s a tale worth telling. Maybe by rehashing it all, I’ll get a clue about how to proceed with my life.
 Recognized |
#7 June 2024 |
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