On the Lamb

    But I definitely feel different. I feel both heavier and lighter, like I'm walking underwater. It takes a lot of energy to move, but I also worry that I might float away if I were to hold my breath and loosen my muscles. And the difference isn't just physical—my brain feels underwater as well. It's hard for me to think about the future, even if I'm only trying to think ahead by a few seconds. When I try, my brain gargles and chokes and stalls like a flooded engine. There's not much I can do other than put one foot in front of the other and whistle for Toby and worry that I might not ever see him again.

    No, something's definitely different. When I had jumped off that locomotive, I happened to time my departure just as the train passed through a small camp of Goldminers. As I was dusting off the leaves and dirt that my pink clothes had gathered during my roll on the forest floor, I noticed that I was surrounded by scrawny, dirty, bearded People with golden teeth and shiny pickaxes. Rather than adhere to any of my usual patterns or tastes, rather than run away as far as possible for fear of being caught and maimed and chucked into a stew, I remained right where I was. In fact, I remained in that camp for one full night and almost a whole other day, all at my own discretion. I gladly drank from their stock of homebrewed "Clear Thunder". I danced to banjo music. I cried to banjo music. I shared a cot with a Goat.

    The next day, after leaving the camp, I hitch-hiked. I stuck my thumb out until a crowperson pulled his truck over and rolled down his window. When he asked, "Where you headin’, son?", I looked off towards the rising sun, squinted my eyes, took a slow breath, and said, "Nowhere."

    So he left without me. But I didn't care. And now here I am, walking along this stretch of gravel road—a road that could very well be 101, as far as I know—and I am completely exposed. Someone—anyone! a C.O., a Cop, or even just your average, day-to-day Psycopath with a crossbow and a sack of severed tongues—could just drive right past and snatch me up by the scruff of my neck, and there would be nothing I could do about it.

    But I don't care.

    I just.

    Don't.

    Care.

    My surroundings are bleak. There's nothing around to hint at my location. There's no landmarks, no businesses, no homes. Just blocks of trees separated by plowed fields, fields littered with stones, dust, and, you know, litter—land still stale from Winter and not yet ready for Spring. The terrain is flat and gray, just like the sky. At least there's no fog, I tell myself.

    Occasionally, I'll see an abandoned shack or a collapsed barn or a trailer that looks as if it had been set on fire then left to burn. But now, way out in one of the fields, maybe about half-a-mile off the road, sits an old house. It looks like the kind of building that a five-year-old would draw. It is square with a triangular roof and a chimney sticking out of one side. It even has a face. The two boarded-up windows on the second story could be eyes, and the door in the middle looks like a surprised mouth.

    Something about the house is mesmerizing to me, like a work of fine art. It’s abandoned, same as all of the other places I've seen today, but that appearance also feels intentional somehow. The other houses and barns and huts have all been dilapidated and decayed, deserted, left to rot...but it’s as if too much attention has been focused upon this particular place. The walls are covered in vulgar graffiti. The land around it is broken by glaring monuments of garbage—couches and stoves and engine blocks that have been dumped around the property like fallen pieces of space junk. Tire tracks—deep ones, maybe from four-wheelers or dirt bikes (and are those...tank treads?)—are carved into the harsh soil around the house like turbulent ripples. The shadows of clouds quietly and swiftly slip across the property, casting the scene in uncertain, stark, and shifting sunlight. It’s like the land is alive just underneath the surface, like maggots squirming behind wallpaper.

    I stand there for a short time, then I step off the road and approach the house.

    I am not too sure why I do this. It's not that this place is particularly attractive or seductive—if anything, it's absolutely repulsive—but I can't help but be drawn to it. I should just keep on walking down the road and never look at this ugly house again, should try and find some food or clean clothes, should try to construct a plan for how to live the rest of my life in seclusion. But I don't try—I can't try. There's something crucial missing inside me, some heavy cog that has directed all of my actions in life up until now. Without it, I feel like all I can do is coast in neutral. Anything uphill feels impossible; the only direction I can possibly move is down. And this house, even though it is on level ground, definitely feels like down—way down.

    There are no steps that lead up to the porch, but there is a mound of broken bricks that I use to lift myself up. It takes a surprising amount of strength to raise myself the few inches required to roll onto the floorboards, and once I finally do, I don't have enough energy left to stand back up. I just lay there and listen to the crows on the roof cawing, stare at the gnats swarming above my face, feel the ants nosing around the hairs on my ankles. Somewhere off in the too-close distance, a heavy gun booms, and birds fly and dogs howl and bark. This concerns me enough to just barely raise me back to my feet.

    I look for some way in, but the door is secured with a rusty padlock, and the windows are boarded up tight. There's nothing around I can use to pry or demolish, nothing except a rotten porch chair and some broken pottery overrun by dead plants. Remembering the bricks, I lean over the edge of the porch to retrieve one, but I can no longer find the pile. Thinking that maybe I had crawled up on a different side of the porch, I stand back up and survey the building to get my bearings straight. At that moment, the white sun eases out from behind a cloud, and my surroundings become harsh. The outside light is blinding, and I have to squint to see in the shadow of the porch.

    A man is now sitting in the rotten chair, just a couple yards away from me, staring straight into my eyes.

    Adrenaline floods my system, and the world around me sharpens and slows, and right then, with untimely certainty, I finally understand what's wrong with me: my fight-or-flight mechanic is broken.

    With no guidance from my instincts, and nothing but adrenaline pumping through my body, all I can do is stand there like a tree on fire.

    The man sitting in the chair is a tall Magician, and he is slumped in the seat like a corpse. The smile on his face is silver and sickly and as curly as the mustache above it. His dusty, patched suit looks too small for his lanky frame, and his scuffed top hat is leaning so far down on his forehead that it must be defying gravity. The man doesn't say anything to me, he just grins and looks into my eyes drunkenly.

    "S-Sorry," I say, as soon as my teeth loosen up. "I d-didn't realize anyone...I w-was just...just looking...looking for...?"

    The Magician's eyes, which just a moment ago were very mellow, are now bugging nearly out of their sockets. He's not looking at me anymore, but at the floor. His posture straightens, and his chest lunges as if someone is smacking him hard on the back. His cheeks swell and deflate, swell and deflate. He burps, and a dead goldfish dribbles off his lip and plops onto the floor. His wretches increase in frequency until, at last, with one final, mighty heave, he produces a key from his crooked mouth.

    He slumps back into his original, overly relaxed position, then holds the key out towards me. When I show my hesitation to take it, he nods to the key and impatiently gestures for me to go ahead, take it. I consider running, or at least questioning, but that would be the same as trying, and anything trying is the same as going uphill. All I can do is take the path of least resistance, so I approach the man and grab the slobbery key from his long fingers.

    The crows on the roof are getting louder. Stop! Stop! Back! Back!, they sound like. But there’s another noise too, something that sounds like music. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that it’s coming from the piece of metal I’m holding between my fingers.

    The key is old. It’s black and rounded and made out of rusty iron. It only has one square tooth on the tip, and the other end has been bent to resemble the outline of a clover. On the inside of this design is something that seems out of place for such a relic, something like dark plastic. I bring the key closer to my eye to get a better look at what’s causing the strange darkness in the hollow of key, and as I do, the music gets louder. I glance at the Magician for some direction, but he seems to have already forgotten about me; he looks just a few moments away from unconsciousness.

    Wondering if maybe the darkness in the key is some kind of looking glass or a shaded lens, I close my left eye and cover the right one with the handle of the key. As soon as I do, the music becomes as clear as if it were playing in a radio by my head. Everything does indeed look dark now, but not quite like I’m looking through sunglasses. The scenery outside the porch is just as dark as the porch itself, and I can see glowing points of orange light that I couldn’t see before. When I take the key away from my eye, the music remains at the same high volume, and the darkness doesn’t brighten.

    I drop the key, but it doesn’t clang when it hits the porch. There’s hardly any noise, because it lands on a crusty rug instead of the wooden floorboards.

    “Who the hell are you?”

    I can’t see who asks me this, but it’s not the Magician—he’s now asleep, still in the chair, still a few feet in front of me. I look for the voice, but it’s dark in here, and I can’t loca...

    In here?

    Yes, I am certainly not outside anymore. There’s no breeze, no gnats, no warmth from the sun. My eyes adjust, and I see that I am now inside the house.

    “P-Pardon?” I speak into the dark.

    “Who. The hell. Are you?”

    This question feels like a curveball. I’m not too sure how to answer, and I step closer to the voice. “Can...can you repeat the question? P-Please?”

    There are thin beams of sunlight coming through the walls like tight strands of golden thread. A cloud of smoke rolls into a slice of light, and I can just barely make out the source of it. Against the far wall to my left, piled together on a plaid love seat, is a trio of Beings—a skinny man dressed in a leather vest and not much else, a huge, rolling woman wearing even less, and a potbellied piggoid wearing fishnet stockings and a feather boa. The man and the Pig are smoking cigarettes—the fat woman is either long asleep or recently deceased, I can’t tell. The glowing tips of their smokes must be the lights I was seeing in the key handle.

    “Dammit, Manny!” says the skinny guy. “You gotta stop letting sucking kids in here!”

    The Magician wakes up long enough to vomit out a long rope of colorful scarves, then he falls sideways off the chair and collapses onto the floor, clanging against a collection of glass bottles and beer cans.

    “Jesus Christ,” says the guy in the vest, putting out his cigarette on the shoulder of the couch. He blows out his smoke, then looks me over. “Whatever...you don’t look like a narc, and I guess that’s all that matters.” The Pig snorts and smiles at this. She adjusts the valve of an oxygen tank that is strapped to her square nose, then she snuggles in closer to the man's chest and begins to nap. “So? What do you want? Some munch? Nog? Osteo? Tell me: what are you kids into these days?”

    “Uh—”

    Something bumps into my shoulder. It’s a Saxophone, and it’s playing itself lethargically. It walks over to a corner where it joins a Bass Guitar, some Drums, and an Accordian, who are all playing the same song, the one I was hearing through the key. I have to speak up to make sure I’m heard over them. “I want...I’m looking for…” and once again, I’m at a lost for a simple answer to a simple question. I eventually settle for: “Do...do you guy’s have a phone?”

    “A phone? Is that all?” The man snorts. “You sure you ain’t a narc?”

    “I don’t know,” I admit. I had never heard that word before, and I was worried that I might be one. “Is that, like...a bird of some kind?”

    The man cackles like a hyena. “More like a rat,” he says, and he seems to be more comfortable with me now. Using his head, he gestures towards the back of the house. “Phone’s in the kitchen. Gotta plug it in to use it. Unplug it when you’re done.” He reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, which is just a fridge tipped onto its back, but the two heavy bodies resting on him prevent him from reaching the box. "Kid, can you toss me those?"

    I walk farther into the room, and the rest of the house reveals itself. There does not appear to be any rooms, just one big floor with broken walls that divide it into a few nooks. A staircase stands right across from the entrance, its bannister missing, just some splintered dowels left as evidence of its previous existence.

    The three bodies on the couch aren't the only ones in the room, either. Sticking out from behind a crumbling wall is a pair of hairy legs decked out in high heels and panty hose; there's a ladycat sitting on the floor, her back propped up against an upside-down recliner, sucking on a shrimp as if it were a pacifier; and the Magician, of course, passed out in a pile of his own colorful, silk vomitus.

    "C'mon, kid!" says the skinny guy. "Smokes! Hurry it up!"

    I go over to the fridge and pick up the cigarettes. Before I can toss them to the guy, I catch a whiff of the fresh tobacco. I am instantly reminded of my last night in Crumshack, plotting my escape with Rocko, Jamie, and Enuff. How much different it smells now! That first time I smoked a cigarette, it smelled like a tailpipe and tasted about the same. But now! Now it smells rich and sweet and golden, and I realize that it is a smell and a taste that is so unique nothing else in the world can mimic it.

    I turn the pack over and tap one out for myself.

    "Yo, man! Don't mooch! Get your own!"

    I hold the cigarette between my fingers and smell it. Just feeling the weight of it balancing off my knuckle makes me believe I am three-times older than I actually am. Once again, I remember what it’s like to be the Kidd—the boy, the myth, the legend.

    I stick the cigarette in my mouth and throw the pack sideways. It hits the guy's chest then tumbles down somewhere underneath the fat woman.

    "Man, what the muck?" The guy struggles to get an arm out from under the Pig. "What the hell—"

    "Saving your life," I say, and I wink at him. "Haven't you heard? Smoking kills. Man." I grin like a lunatic and walk away to find the phone. The guy's cursing follows me out. Where did that come from? I wonder.

    The kitchen is difficult to locate, since there aren’t any walls and the appliances don’t appear to be confined to any one part of the house. But I do locate the phone, an old one with a rotary dial and a curly cord, and I plug it into the wall jack. The dial tone is there at once, and I do what kids always do when they’re in some trouble. I call Dad.

    After I turn the final digit, the disk clicks back into place, and the the phone rings. And rings. And rings. But, right as I’m about to hang up, someone answers on the other side.

    “Hello—” I hear, and I’m so excited to hear my dad’s voice that I storm straight into the conversation.

    “Dad! It’s Elroy! Please, you gotta—”

    “—ched my voicemail. Sorry I couldn’t pick up, but as you probably know, I’m still in my cabin, and the reception is poor up here do to the mountains, so…”

    “Oh! Come on, Dad...pick up for once!”

    I feel something cold brush against my ankle. I look down, and I see a Tea Kettle with big eyes looking back up at me. It is rubbing its spout against my ankle. It looks thirsty. I think it wants me to pick it up, so I do. It is neglected and rusty, and this more than anything else makes me wonder if I should be in this house or not.

    I pet the Kettle’s dented shell, and the Thing purrs in my arms. “You okay li’l guy? Thirsty? Have—”

    “—sound of the beep.” Beeeeeeeeeeeep.

    The phone! I had almost forgotten. “Oh! Dad! Hey! It’s Elroy! Listen, uh...I was wondering if you could call me back as soon as you get this. I, uh...I have a question for you. My number is, uh…” I look around for some clue, and I put the Kettle down on a nearby countertop so I can pick up the phone to inspect it. But I find nothing except stickers for bands and other phone numbers my dad could call if he was looking for a “good time” and not his son…which, when I think about it, might not be so far-fetched.

    “Just…just call me back at the house when you get this. And leave a number that I can reach you at.” I think about it more, and then I get a lump in my throat. “Actually...can you just...come home?” My voice cracks, and I blush. I hang up without saying goodbye. The Tea Kettle is staring at me, worried and curious.

    “Hey, pal,” I say. “Sorry...didn’t mean to forget about you.” Nearby, just above a boarded-up window, is a copper pipe with a steady drip. Using my foot, I slide a phonebook over the puddle on the floor. I fold the Kettle’s lid back, and I pick the Thing up and place it underneath the drip. It looks relieved, and it laps at each falling drop with its spout, too impatient to let the water just land inside its reservoir.

    I pick up the handset of the phone again, and I dial a different number. This time I try for Mom, and like with my Dad, the phone rings and rings. Except, on about the eighth ring, someone picks up.

    “(I know, right? Totally.) ...Hello?” I hear, and I hesitate. It’s my mother’s voice for sure—she always answers the phone that way, as if she is surprised to discover a phone pressed against her ear—but I wait anyway just to make certain it's not another voicemail.

    “...Mom?”

    “...Elroy?”

    For some reason I hadn’t expected her to actually pick up, and I’m at a loss for what to say. So she talks instead.

    “...how’s it going, big guy? Everything okay?”

    I clear my throat. “Oh, yeah, yeah...everything's fine. It’s fine.” I step backwards, and my heel rolls on a bullet casing. I drop the phone and grab the counter so I don’t fall. I quickly snatch the rubber cord and whip the handset back into my fingers...but not quick enough.

    “What was that?” she asks.

    “Nothing! The phone just slipped. I think—”

    “I can’t hear you, bud. Turn down your music for a second.”

    I tuck the receiver into my armpit and turn my back to the rest of the house. “Mom, are you at home right now? I could use a ride if—”

    “Are you not at home?”

    “Uh…”

    She doesn’t know yet, I think. She doesn’t know what happened to me. She still thinks I’m at home, in my room, at my desk. “Well, um, actually—”

    “That’s okay if you’re not!” she rushes. “You do what you want! You’re your own person, and I respect that. You don’t need me or anyone else telling you—”

    “Mom! Mom, listen. I need a ride. Is there any way you can come—”

    “Why? Are you drunk? It’s okay if you are! And it’s okay if you’re driving—you know, I’m not the Cops, for Doug’s sake—I just want you to know that if you’re looking to have some fun, you can always come hang out with me and the girls at happy hour! We can get you in, don’t worry about that. Cheryl’s found this new drink that I’d think you would absolutely love called a—what’s it called again, Beth? What’d you say it was?—oh yeah! A Frosty Nipple! Isn’t that hilarious? I think—”

    “Mom! Mom! I don’t drink. I don’t know how to drive, either. I’m twelve. Which is why I’m calling you. I need a ride. Can you come pick me up? Please?”  

    Full of water and relief, the Kettle by my feet whistles with excitement. I try to tell it to be quiet, but it doesn't understand me, and it continues to squeal. I have to cover my ear because I am missing what my mom is trying to say. “What was that?” I ask.

    “Where are you?”

    “I’m...north somewhere.”

    “North? North of where?”

    “I dunno...the city? I'm in farmland. Everything here smells like cow poop.”

    “(Hold on Derrick, I’m almost done.) Did you say you’re at a farm? How did—” She gasps. “Sweety! Did you...did you make some friends?”

    “No, Mom! You’re not listening to me! I need help...”

    “Sweety, I can’t come pick—Yeah, girl! You know I do!—I can't come pick you up if you don't know where you’re at. Listen. Figure out where you’re at—”

    “Mom, I don't—”

    “—THEN CALL ME right back, okay? I’ll have Beatrice come pick you up right away.”

    Once again I'm aware of how broken I am. This entire conversation has felt like clawing up a steep mountain, and I don't have the energy anymore to fight it. I just let go and roll back down to the bottom. “Okay, Mom. Sure thing.”

    “There you go, babe. Don’t panic. You’ll be fine. (Seth! Stop it!) You’re an adult, and you are completely capable of solving things on your own. Don’t ever doubt that, and don't (Stop!) don’t let anyone tell you different, ‘kay?”

    “Okay, Mom.”

    “Alright! Love you, babe!”

    “Yeah.”

    I hang up, and stand there listening to the sad Instruments in the living room playing a slowed-down and lifeless version of "Born to Live", smelling the smoke and mold and burning plastic that this house seems to be made out of, feeling the heaviness in my eyelids spreading down to the rest of my body. I don’t want to move. I just want to stand there forever and let the planet rotate around me. I doubt anyone in this house would mind.

    My thumb twiddles the butt of the cigarette that has been patiently waiting between my fingers. I check to see if Enuff’s lighter is still rolled into the back of my waistband, and it is. I light up and take a deep drag.

    And it feels good. The smoke fills my chest, pushes my insides outwards, expands my lungs, increases their potential for air. Smoking makes my breathing feel deeper, more complete. The oxygen doesn't just go to my chest, but to my head and my fingertips. And that part of my brain that's moving extra fast, that's been urging me to run outside and never look back, shrinks and quiets with every inhale. The house no longer seems so scary or dangerous, and I no longer feel so small or so young. I stand there breathing, motionless, staring at patch of black fungus growing its way through the wallpaper. I stand there until my cigarette burns down to the filter.

    “You look lost.”

    I come out of my daze and look around.

    Lying inside an empty, claw-footed bathtub, on the opposite side of the house as the couch and the Instruments and the creepy Magician, is a tenant whom I missed when I first walked in. A sheepgirl—who is roughly my age, maybe a couple years older—lazily waves at me with her hoof. Her wool is black and patchy; most of it has been shaved off with the exception of a wide strip that runs from her forehead to the back of her neck.

    “I...I beg your pardon?”

    At first I think she is smoking a really thin cigarette, but she takes it out of her long mouth and I see that it is actually a lollipop. “You look lost,” she says again, louder. One of her eyes is closed, and the other one is only halfway open. She looks as if she might fall asleep at any second. Her head is tilted backwards against the lip of the tub, and I get a crick in my neck just looking at her. “That’s okay though,” she says. “I’ve been lost before too.”

    She beckons me over with a loose wave of her sucker. I walk over to the tub, and I can see now that she is wearing a really long tank top that might be older than her. The colors on it may have once been bright and neon and sharp and extravagant, but they are now about as colorful as a magazine pulled from the rubble of a house fire.

    “I’ve got a general idea of where I’m at,” I say. “Somewhere...north, right?”

    The sheepgirl smiles and closes her one open eye. “Yancyville,” she says. “And I don’ mean like that. I mean you look lost. Like...like you can’t find yourself.” She giggles and snorts. “You’re like a TV remote.” And she keeps on giggling at her own joke. It’s kind of cute, and I can’t help but grin myself.

    “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “I’ve been feeling pretty weird lately.”

    She scooches over and pats the empty space next to her. Her hoof knocks against the porcelain, and the tub resounds like a sturdy bell.

    “Oh,” I say nervously. “Oh, okay...yeah, sure.” I approach the tub and stick one foot inside, then reconsider my approach and take my leg back out. I scratch my head, then face my back to the tub and consider falling in like a Scubaman re-entering the ocean, but a vision of my neck snapping against the back of the tub stops me from going through with it. As I’m considering the idea of carefully crawling in on my hands and knees, the sheepgirl snatches my shirt and pulls me in. I yelp, but there’s nothing to worry about—my body naturally slips into the appropriate shape against the curve of the tub, and I am soon sitting just like she is with my head against the back and the underside of my knees hooked over the front.

    The sheepgirl is wholeheartedly laughing now, and the sound is pure beauty. There’s more magic in just one of her giggles than in that Magician’s entire family tree, I think stupidly. I wish I could can it. Her laugh fades into a dim smile, and I already miss the sound. With frantic urgency, I am compelled to keep the laughter going, like a simmering wick on a candle, a flickering light in the depths of a monstrous cavern. “So,” I say, in as suave a voice as I can manage, “what’s a lamb like you doing in a tub like this?” It’s the most charming thing I can think of. Not great, I admit, but it does get the job done. She giggles, and the candle glows warmer.

    “Why are any of us anywhere?”

    “Yeah,” I say, uncertain of how to build off of that. I try to concoct something witty, but all that comes out is a whiny mumble that fizzles down into quiet breathing. A hush settles between us...and then she stirs. From somewhere underneath her shirt, she produces a small bag of what looks like green glitter. Even in this dark house, it’s shiny.

    “Want to get found?” she asks, and she wiggles the bag in the air teasingly.

    “...what is that?”

    “It’s glit, homie! Duh!”

    “Oh...what’s glit?”

    Her eyes open all the way (almost). “You know...glit.” Then she leans close to me and whispers: “Pixie dust.”

    This term I know. Pixie dust is a drug, and a pretty hard one at that, I believe. I don’t know much about drugs other than I’ve never done any, and I don’t ever plan to. The idea of getting high terrifies me. It’s astonishing that I’ve even allowed myself to smoke cigarettes, really, and to drink alcohol like I've been doing. I’ve seen the commercials that play between my Saturday-morning cartoons, like the one where the woman throws a carton of eggs into a washing machine, or the one where the Ferret family is crying around the long casket of their son. They only things I know for certain about drugs are how they’ll kill you if you’re lucky, and if you’re not lucky, they’ll kill your family and turn your brain into toothpaste. Of course, Mom says all of those commercials are just propaganda by the government to scare children into staying in school, which itself is just a “brainwashing machine that turns kids into slaves of Society,” but her philosophies only complicate my understanding of drugs even further.

    But still. I don’t want to look like an ignorant child in front of this girl, so I put on my best The-Kidd face, and I say: “Oh! Pixie dust! Why didn’t—”

    “SHHHHhhhh!” She quickly slips the bag under her shirt. “Not so loud. If any of these powdaheads knew I got glit, they’d go nuts.”

    I apologize and lower my voice. “Really? You think they would? They don’t look like the kind of people who would get you in trouble.”

    She looks at me funny, and then she snorts and giggles, and I am filled with warmth again. “That’s not what I meant! They...BA-a-A-ah!” She shoves air through her black lips, and she dismissively, but playfully, shoos me with her hoof. “Get outta here, homie!” She laughs, I smile...and then she brings the bag of drugs back out and proceeds to get high.

    Any good feelings I might have built up while talking with this sheepgirl drain from my body. With horror, I watch as she pulls out the lollipop from her mouth, dips it into the bag, slips it back out (glistening like an emerald), and then sucks on the lollipop till every last spec of Pixie dust is removed. She sighs with something like relief, then once again appears to be on the verge of slumber. I secretly hope she does.

    To my dismay, however, she doesn’t fall asleep. She nods back awake and reinserts the lollipop into the bag, pulls it out, and then offers it to me. Her grin is blissfully sedate.

    “Oh...uh,” I say. “I’m good. Thank you though. I, uh...I had a big breakfast.”

    She frowns and elbows me in the rib. “Don’t be a pooper, man. I want to trip with some company. Don’t leave me alone...” Her face looks genuinely devastated, and I hate to see it that way. All I want is for her to laugh again.

    “Well,” I say, and nervously chuckle. “I guess...I guess a little wouldn’t be so bad.”

    She smiles and closes her eyes. Her body loosens up, and I think she might actually fall asleep this time, but she instead tips over to the side and rests her wooly head on my shoulder. I am so startled by this that I jerk some when she touches me, because it’s probably the most physical affection my body has ever felt.

    She offers me the baggie, and I swallow and reach for it. My hand trembles, and I wonder if maybe I stall long enough if she’ll fall asleep and won’t notice me chicken out. “Hey! Do you play cards? Cuz I know a few...I know…”

    The sheepgirl removes the lollipop from her mouth and adheres it to the wall of the tub. She steadies my hand with her hoof, and then my finger takes the place of the lollipop in her mouth.

    My face hasn’t been so hot since Enuff tried to catch it on fire. I can barely say anything from all the spit collecting in my mouth. All I can do is watch as she smoothly removes my finger and dips it into the bag. “Bottoms up, homie,” she says as she pops my finger into my own mouth, grinning. I can taste the metallic grit of the dust, along with the warmth of her own saliva. She rubs my finger deep into my cheeks and under my tongue. Then she lets go of me. “Let’s go find you.” She pats my chest and snuggles up against my shoulder like it’s a comfy pillow.

    Even if I try not to swallow the dust, it won’t matter—the stuff dissolves in my mouth like warm sugar. No turning back now.

    “How long will it last?” I ask, already feeling a tingling in the spots where my jaw connects under my ears. Panic is creeping in now, along with regret.

    “Hm?” she mumbles.

    “How...how long will this stuff last, you think?”

    “I dunno...couple hours...”

    “Oh, wow...okay.” That’s a lot longer than I thought. For some reason I was expecting it to last no longer than an hour. I take a deep breath. “Alright...here we go, I guess.”

    She giggles and sniffs. “Yeah….unless it’s your first time, of course...then a day or three.”

    My skin freezes.

    DAYS?! Oh, God….what have I gotten myself into? Why? Why did I do this? Why why WHY WHY WH—

    “Hey….” she says.

    My eyes are starting to fill with tears, and I try not to look at her, even though her eyes are almost certainly closed. “Yeah?”

    “You’re funny.”

    “...really?”

    But she doesn’t respond; she’s gone too far down the road. It doesn’t matter. I know she meant what she said, and I know that—no matter what happens as a result of this decision I’ve made—it was worth it.

    Feeling much better, I go ahead and get comfortable, and I prepare myself for the long roll downhill.

AND THAT'S THE STORY of how I became addicted to hallucinogenic drugs when I was twelve.