Warning: Disturbing content

The first time I did heroin it was an accident. I know, I know. What kind of bullshit junkie lie is that? But seriously, I was drunk at a party. I was a lost 18-year-old kid, and some older guys were sucking smoke off a tinfoil sheet. I thought it was some keef. Pot residue. Something with some THC. I didn’t even know you could smoke heroin. I wanted to balance my drunk and intercepted the sheet.

The second I inhaled, and I mean the absolute second, I knew I’d hit something else. My eyes slid back. Something warm rolled out of my lungs and flew through my bloodstream. Boom. I was hooked. I wasn’t even upset when they told me I just hit heroin. If anything, I was angry that heroin had such a bad rep. Because this was fucking incredible.

Well, I figured out why heroin is so bad. It only took about 14 months, thousands of dollars, my relationship with my parents, and three friends overdosing to make the discovery.

After one particularly brutal low where I emptied my little sisters’ purse in order to buy a bag, the camera zoomed out, and I saw my pathetic life for what it was. I knew I had to change before I became some street walking zombie. I was still young enough to not just get my shit together but live a totally normal life. I looked up recovery meetings on my phone and set out to go to one the very next night.

I took the bus past the cemetery where I noticed several cop cars were parked at the gates with their lights whirling. It wasn’t super strange. Our city lacked green space and people used the sprawling cemetery as a park. They jogged, walked their strollers, and even drank where a few picnic tables were set up. Sometimes there was trouble with all the people coming and going there, and by the time I got off the bus my mind was elsewhere.

I followed my phone to the address and paused outside. My phone had taken me to a blonde brick building. From the looks of it I suppose it was probably once a school. Now, in faded letters stenciled on the brick it read “The Center for the Road to Recovery”

I opened the door and went into the hallway. It still smelled like a school, pencil shavings and ammonia cleaner. The lights were on in one of the old classrooms and I peeked in. People were mingling outside a ring of folding chairs. One caught my eye and gave me a wide smile.

“Hey! Are you here for AA at 8pm?”

“Oh, ah... I’m actually looking for a narcotic anonymous meeting.”

The man pointed with the same hand that held a Styrofoam cup. “That’s down the hall, up the stairs. Room 234.”

To be honest I have no idea what he said. It’s what got me into this mess in the first place. I don’t remember. I didn’t exactly understand his directions, and being socially awkward, I didn’t ask him to repeat himself. I smiled and gave a little wave.

The building was big, but there couldn’t be too many meetings to choose from. Every other classroom I walked by was dark. When I reached the staircase, I must’ve blanked and went to third floor, not the second.

When I left the stairwell, I noticed the hall lights were off. I saw a closed door at the end of the hallway and its sole window glowed yellow. I walked towards it, my sneakers screeching on the marble every few steps. I thought I heard my footfalls echo behind me, but the cadence was wrong. I spun around and swore I saw a shadow dart into a classroom.

It could be a hallucination. A trick of the mind. After all, I hadn’t been high in almost a day and the withdrawals would be starting any time now. Painful, sweaty hell awaited me.

I picked up my pace to the door with the light and as soon as I could see through the glass, I noticed everyone in the room was already staring at me from their folding chairs. Suddenly a face swung in front of the window to inspect me. One eye bulged and looked me up and down. The face disappeared and the door slowly opened.

“Can we help you?”

“Uh… hi, my name’s Jack, I was told to find by…”

“Jack!” I was pulled inside and patted on the back. “Oh, you scared me for a second. We don’t get many visitors to the third floor. You know, your uncle told us to expect you but that was last week, we’re glad you changed your mind. It’s not easy to get help. Now, now, don’t be nervous, we love newcomers. The more of us there are the more normal we feel.”

“My uncle?” I tried to correct him, but the man was too excited to see me. I couldn’t get a word in. “I’m Marshall,” he said, pointing at his chest. He reeked of menthol cigarettes and had yellow, jaundiced eyes and gestured a big hand towards the rest of the attendants.

“Usually, we’d do introductions for a newcomer, but we’re in the middle of something serious. I think you chose a great first meeting to attend. This one’s about relapse,” Marshall looked at an older man who held his head in his hands. “Here,” he pulled another folding chair into the circle and I sat.

I looked left and shared an awkward smile with an older, petite woman. To my right was a fat man with what looked like mud around his mouth. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were partly closed, like he was trying to ignore some kind of pain.

“Gary,” Marshall groaned as he sat. “You mind continuing?”

The older man who had been holding onto his face suddenly sat back straight and wiped his nose. “Well, as I was saying, I thought Greta wasn’t going to be home until the next day. You know how dangerous that is. No one home. No one to judge. We get the house to ourselves and suddenly all we can think of is getting a fix.”

The others around me nodded knowingly and I did, too, to fit in.

“Well, I just wanted a fix. A high. You know how it goes. I’m getting older, and it’s getting harder to find people to pick up from. But there’s little in this world that can stop a fiending addict from finding a fix. And the next thing I know I’m in my living room deep in a bag…

My wife did get home on time. She wasn’t even early, that’s how screwed my sense of time became. She found me all messy in the morning. And she,” he shook his head and his voice cracked as he began to cry. “She left me. I was clean for 7 fucking years. One relapse and she left me. She said she couldn’t live with the fear of having a husband who might always go back to his old habits.”

I was getting secondhand sadness for this guy; it was miserable to watch but suddenly everything changed.

“I mean it was evil. He was so young, but I’m too old to go after an older boy.”

I brought my head back in surprise and the people I was seated next turned to look at me. I pretended to act natural. Something felt off about this whole meeting and I had just realized what. There was only one woman, the rest were men, and this entire thing felt… secretive. Like they were hiding something that could get them in trouble.

I realized I found myself in the middle of a pedophile support group.

Marshall cleared his throat. “Now, Gary, and this goes for you too, Jack, we only use euphemisms here. Refer to the boy like he’s a drug. Don’t name names. Don’t say anything that makes it seem like we’re anything other than a drug support group. We’re pretty sequestered up here on the third floor, but you never know who’s listening.”

Gary nodded and wiped his nose. I tried my best to keep my composure. I needed to do something. I needed to report this meeting. Suddenly the door swung open and the room jolted.

In the doorway stood a tall, longhaired man. His boots were muddied, and his face displayed a kind of fury. He wore a long trench coat, concealing what I imagined were weapons. Suddenly I feared for my life. I was sure he was some kind of pedo-killing vigilante and he was about to group me in with the rest of them.

He walked quickly into the circle and grabbed the fat man seated next to me by the neck. “Have you told them!” the vigilante growled. “Have you even told the group or are you just fucking sitting here with your guilt. I know it was you! They have your description already, you son of a bitch. And you come here.”

The fat man didn’t say anything, he just looked sick. Suddenly the vigilante started to violently force his fingers into the fat man’s throat. The rest of the group began to protest, and Marshall stood up and pulled the vigilante off.

“Ron, Ron! None of that here!” I was somewhat relieved that the man was known by the group but now I was just confused. I thought about using the commotion as an excuse to slip out, but I was too interested.

“Do you know what he did?!” The longhaired man shouted and Marshall shook his head. “A baby, Marshall. In broad daylight. A baby…”

I thought about the cops I saw at the cemetery earlier and my eyes peeled back in disgust. He’d abducted a baby… what kind of monster. But I was missing something.

The fat man swayed and suddenly a torrent of brown, black vomit spewed from his mouth. My eyes were focused on something pale that sat in the pile, but I couldn’t believe it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” said the fat man in between dry heaves. “It was just so fresh. I watched the bulldozer…” he paused to burp, and my shocked brain finally realized what the pale thing was that sat in his pile of vomit.

“Bury it. I watched the bulldozer bury it. It was just so fresh, please. A guilt free snack. I’m sorry. You guys are lucky. I know you guys hate it, but I’m cursed. I really don’t mind the taste of embalming fluid.”

Oh, thank god, I thought and wiped my brow. These weren’t pedophiles, they were cannibals. I stood up, bowed a little and left the room. Everyone was too busy arguing with each other to even notice.

I haven’t had a hit of heroin in 87 days btw. Pretty rad, whenever I want a hit I just think about the shame of relapse.

Heroin ain’t that great. Not at all. Getting high again still sounds good sometimes but I just think of that fat cannibal. The shame of his relapse that shined in his eyes as he stared at the little baby leg curled in a pile of his own vomit.