Snow drifter

Nick rubs the last of the crumbs into his gums and waits for the tingle. He swallows down the pharmaceutical phlegm, runs his tongue over the numbness where his teeth used to be, and stands taller. Every neuron in his brain is fizzing. He is alive. Invincible. No longer a loser in a slow death of a job, but a man with spark who’s going somewhere. As soon as he gets out of this stinking bog, that is. He kicks back the door, struts past the miserable urinals and feels every cell in his body swell as the music hits him like a sonic massage. His cock is vibrating to the beat. He wants a fuck so bad. He looks around knowing he has to act before the magic fades – before the powder wears off and these girls start to look like the dogs they are or recognise him for the shameful cunt he is. Then he spots one he knows. Jesus. Tina. Nick? Yeah. Crazy, man. What you doing here? Oh, you know. Night off from the kids. You? Nah, don’t really see mine any more. Messy. Fuck that anyway. Drink with me. Yeah, fuck it. Why not. He orders two tequila shots. He never drinks tequila but the shock of seeing her has temporarily short-circuited his high. He winces as she knocks it back in one, wipes her glistening chin and orders them another. How’s Gary? Yeah fine. Out most nights. May as well be a single mum. He clocks the trenches round her eyes. The magic is fading. His stomach is churning. Fuck me, she mouths. He can just make out the words over the throbbing bass. What? Fuck me. He’s about to ask what about Gary but he knows it’s futile. It’s a done deal. He leads her back to the toilet and forces her against the cistern. He grapples with her tights with one hand and his jeans with the other. His cock is non-existent but he rams away at her anyway and starts to get hard. She’s moaning. He thumps against her six, seven, eight times until she starts to shudder. That was quick he’s thinking, then realises she’s crying. How did I get here, she’s saying over and over. What the fuck am I doing? She pushes him away and crashes out the door, her bag lying in a puddle of piss at his feet. He feels properly sick now, then sees a twenty amidst the lipstick and tampons and snorts a line. Then another. And another. Job done, he heads outside where she’s puking in the gutter. I’m sorry he says, handing her the bag. That shouldn’t have happened. You always were a selfish cunt, she screams. That whole time Mark was ill and you never even… she stops and pukes some more. I didn’t know what to say. You didn't have to say anything. He needed you. I was scared. Don’t you think he was fucking scared? I know, he says. His face is wet now, his tears melding with the faint specks of snow fighting for landing space. That high he felt in the club, that five-minute window of possibility… this is the exact inverse. His whole life is one long fucking come down. He can barely make out what she’s saying now, the flashbacks are so intense. There’s something about the swirling snowflakes that hypnotises him. They must have been barely teens. School was closed, heating failure. Mark knew a place, had a plan. They stole a packet of Tina’s ciggies and a bottle of Drambuie and headed to the Ups And Downs, makeshift sledges in hand. The snow had coated everything like fresh Tippex. It was theirs. All theirs. Silence. Mark’s fucking brilliant grin. We’re kings of our own destiny, my friend. Never forget that. Because no matter how shit life gets there’s always moments like this when you can rub it all out, you know, and start again. A brand new page. They haven’t even touched the booze and already Mark’s on one of his sermons, but Nick gets it. He always gets it. I miss him, Tina is crying. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. He can’t tell if he is trembling from the cold or withdrawal. His hand instinctively reaches down for the coke in his pocket then, suddenly possessed, lobs the crumpled wrap into the road before he has chance to change his mind. The way he sees it, he can carry on killing himself one gram at a time, or he can be the guy he once saw reflected in his best friend's eyes. The one who flew down that fucking hill in a bin bag then staggered howling with laughter back to the top before relaunching himself. Again. And again. So much possibility. He puts his arms around her. I know he says. Come on. Let’s get you home. The snow falls with more purpose; the pavement finally surrendering to the frozen assault. Tomorrow the grimy streets will be pure white.   

By Beth