The Final Days

I am sitting with several buddies at my girlfriend’s house smoking some weed when suddenly a stranger strolls in unannounced. “Hey, what’s happening? I hear there a party going on,” said the man. “Anybody want to get high? I got some good shit.” His long, wispy mane is pulled to a ponytail and his thin goatee and haunting eyes give him an evil texture. With both hands he gingerly cups a small sandwich bag full of glistening, white powder; and as if he’s on a mission, he walks straight to me and dangles the bag in front of my nose. “Have some kid, it’s some great PCP.” Normally, I wouldn’t indulge, (pot and LSD are my drugs of choice) but I’m feeling depressed and could use a stronger kick; so I shove my nose in the bag and inhale deeply. The effect is immediate. My head nearly explodes, the room quadruples in size, faces distort, paranoia seizes me, and suddenly everything goes black. I’ve left my body but I can still hear faint voices, muffled and distorted whispers from afar.

Visuals are a problem; it feels like huge barbells are sitting on my eyelids. When I finally do pry them open I find myself firmly strapped to a large, wooden electric chair situated in the center of a dank basement. The smell of water damage is all pervasive, and muted light emanates from a small window that’s covered with a tattered cloth curtain. Besides the steady drip of water, the only other sound is that of heavy breathing. It sounds very near but my eyes are still blurred, and I catch no movement. Seconds, maybe minutes, later my eyes clear. Directly, no more than ten feet away, stands a dark, shadowy figure leaning against the wall. A coal black hood fits loosely over his head, and I immediately recognize him: He’s my executioner. Small portholes in his hood expose yellow, rotting teeth, a huge angular nose and lifeless, blue eyes. He utters nary a word, but his icy stare speaks volumes. The stench of death hovers about him like thick fog. He clings tenaciously to a silver handle protruding from the wall—the switch. I scream out, “Please don’t kill me.” No response.

The steady drip, drip, drip of the tiny falling droplets echoes off the walls—once a small voice, it has grown into a thundering roar. DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. Fear consumes me!

Suddenly, with a one swift motion, the executioner yanks the lever down, freeing the electricity. So strong was the initial jolt, I’m slammed back into the chair; then comes the burning and charring and unbearable pain. I grope for air. I desperately claw at the chair handles.

This ineffable terror continues for several minutes, and finally I cry out in desperation, “Please God just get this over with, kill me.” At that moment a tiny twinkling light appears near the window, like Tinker Bell but not in a human form. Surely this is a sign of hope, I think. But I’m growing weak, and I can feel myself slipping into death’s abyss. “Oh my god,” I utter in a feeble voice. Then a curious thing happens. The light nearly doubles in size and the electric current diminishes a tad. Encouraged, I repeat: “Oh my god,” this time with a little more zeal. The brilliant light now expands to size of a softball, and the electric shock lessons considerably. Ah, ha, I think, this is my ticket to freedom. So I close my eyes, garner all my strength, and scream, “Oh My God.”

When I open my eyes the vision has passed. I’m lying on a small bed, swimming in a pool of sweat and piss. A handful of friends who are holding me down now slowly release their death grips. Abject terror is painted on their faces. “Are you ok?” asks one buddy.

I can’t speak. I slowly rise to my feet and stagger out the front door. It would be my final drug induced gathering with my high school friends as three days later I would be swept into the land of milk and honey—Moonville.