About a week ago, I had a strange flashback.
It started as I was lying down in my bed reading Catch-22 and Slaughterhouse Five at the same time--yes, it's hard to do, but I'm confident in my abilities to multi-task literature--and as I made my periodic switch from Heller to Vonnegut, I felt an odd sensation in the back of my head. It was making its presence known in the form of a thousand little legs, each as thin and sharp as a small needle, and it crawled in some zigs and then some zags until I could feel it make its way upwards through my hair and to the top of my skull.
Of course, by this time, my fingertips were frantically investigating the disturbance, but to no avail. There was no physical being rummaging around on my scalp, but still the feeling persisted.
With a quick and graceful leap over the edge of my bed, I rushed to the bathroom to find this needle-creature in the mirror. With my luck, though, the door was locked.
My roommates were taking a shower. Unfortunately, there wasn't any other place I could go to figure out what was trespassing on my body. So I did what any normal person would do. I kicked in the door to the bathroom.
I should specify, I think, because this gives a false impression that I went all Hollywood on this giant goddamned door and my premier foray into the martial arts dislodged it from the hinges, sending it tumbling about fifteen feet from the opening. First off, the bathroom is only eight by six or some such, so that just wouldn't be plausible. Second off, it turns out that our doors are made of balsa wood, because my foot went straight through that motherfucker. There was a clean hole that permeated both sides, within which my leg was now stuck. I started to hop frantically in an attempt to free myself, and my roommates were screaming at me as loud as they possibly could, but, in my current state, I couldn't be bothered to listen to what it was they were saying. I have only my imagination for that.
So, I finally escaped from the mouth--which is what I am calling it since I just recently decided to spray paint two large eyes in the immediate vicinity above the hole--and I reached through with my arm to turn the lock and grant myself access into a room that really shouldn't be closed off in the first place if such situations like the one I was presented with should arise. Needless to say, my two (ex)friends were unconcerned with my well being, and continued to shout at me as I started parting the hair on top of my head to find whatever it was that was attempting to eat my brain.
I was unable to see anything, but, having dealt with similar creatures in the past, I knew it was merely camouflaged and that the best remedy was to inflict some blunt force trauma to its fragile exoskeleton. At that moment, I wasn't in the best of mental states, and my roommates' screeches from beyond the shower curtains were beginning to cloud my judgment. Long story short, if I were to redo the whole thing, I probably would not have run head first into my roommates' door, which--funny story--happens to be made from the exact same material as the bathroom door. I can not even begin to describe the pain that splinters in your eyes cause.
Anyway, after I removed my head from the hole that I had just made in the other door, I realized that I seem to have a knack for finding studs through drywall.
So here's where the flashback kicks in.
I woke up and I wasn't in my apartment. I was in study hall back in my old high school. We're talking nearly a decade ago. It was the day that I took acid for my first time. I know it was that specific day because one of the first things I saw in the flashback was a kid named Zach sitting next to me and holding out a small paper square under the table. He was obviously waiting for me to take it. I had done in the past, of course, and the flashback was going to be no different. I placed the strip gently onto my tongue and cringed at the wave of bitterness that overtook my mouth. Apparently, it was totally going to be worth it. So I went along with whatever Zach said and played the waiting fame for a minute or too until that same tingling sensation started creeping up on the back of my head.
Motherfucking centineedlepedes!
I started to itch my head in a panic until I couldn't contain my ineffable desire to scream at the top of my lungs. This prompted an odd response from the rest of the people in my study hall, including Ms. Edmond's, who quickly rushed over to see why exactly I was writhing around on the floor.
I can't seem to find the exact words that would explain what I saw when I looked up at her face, so you're just going to have to let your imagination take you where it will. Now, Ms. Edmond's was a mildly attractive woman in her mid-30's, but when I stopped screaming for a moment, as per her request, I gazed upwards towards the sound of her voice to see strips of flesh slowly peeling off her cheekbones. Her teeth were falling out, her eyes were sunken in and the eyeballs themselves were decomposing into a hideous ooze that seeped out of the sockets and plopped into little pools on the floor next to me.
It didn't take long for me to grasp what little sanity I had retained and bolt the hell out of that class. (Interesting side note: the best time to escape from school while screaming and ripping apart your scalp is the time when some classes are in session, but block A lunch is still in the cafeteria; that way, most of the security guards are too busy breaking up fights and what not to bother chasing after a kid who is running through the exit and down the street while being pursued by something that is, apparently, extremely terrifying and itchy.)
The flashback was kind enough not to elaborate on the minute details of the day following my escape. I am sure that this was due to the trauma I endured after I fell from a sixth-story balcony just a mere hour after my excursion into the world of hallucinogens. More on that in a moment.
It was a quiet time of the day. I lived in a town that was basically lily-white, pretty rich, and very uptight. Apparently, the acid was telling me that it was very important that I disturb the equilibrium, because I attacked an old woman that was crossing the street after I had just witnessed her shed her clothes and skin. Some people tried to intervene, while others just stopped in their cars and stared, dumb-mouthed, as they dialed the police on their cellphones.
Again, I was on the run. I galloped through parking lots and back alleys, tumbled over bushes and car hoods, and generally made myself look as conspicuous as possible.
And then I saw it: The Herrington; a ritzy hotel where all of the socialites have saucy rendezvous with their bosses or mistresses. The building is made out of a pale stone, with wrought iron-fenced balconies that scale the entire building. It's all very classy. So, of course, this is where I needed to be. Yet, to my shock and horror, skinless military police guards stood out front of the main entrance that would grant me access to my room, and it suddenly occurred to me that I was on shore leave. I wasn't supposed to be tripping while on my day off, I was sure of it.
So, I formulated a fail-proof plan that involved me climbing up the outside of the building, balcony-to-balcony, so I could sneak into my room and let myself freak out in there alone.
Let's just say that it's true that we all have 20/20 hindsight. I know now, for example, that there were no military police stationed there. Furthermore, I know now that I was still fifteen at the time, and could not possibly be in the military. I also know that, when you realize you're hanging off of a balcony that belongs to a sixth floor hotel room with the city police and firefighters yelling for you to come down, your cognitive functions go to shit and the most reasonable way to get out of that predicament is to let go.
In real life, I hit the ground and shattered quite a few bones throughout my body (I also managed to kill the centineedlepede with my fall, by the way). In fact, it was apparently extremely lucky of me to actually survive in the first place, so I was happy to have the function of my right hand at the very least for the next year or so.
The flashback, though, decided it was just going to spare me the long months of recovery time as well, and I came to after I hit the ground in my mind.
I woke up a few days ago in a hospital surrounded by concerned family members and a doctor who was very persistent in his explanations of the delayed flashbacks related to LSD and what not. It was all very disconcerting. I had almost hoped that there really were centineedlepedes that would try to burrow into my brain, just so I knew that I wasn't clinically insane. Alas, life is unfair.
So, two days ago I was released and came home to a nearly empty apartment. A note was left behind from my roommates, who had decided it was time to seek another place of residence. Whatever... I took that as an opportunity to decorate as I saw fit (including my touching murals that incorporate the fresh holes in two of the doors), and start the search for people to live with who are a little more tolerant.
I guess what this all leads to is: any takers?
It started as I was lying down in my bed reading Catch-22 and Slaughterhouse Five at the same time--yes, it's hard to do, but I'm confident in my abilities to multi-task literature--and as I made my periodic switch from Heller to Vonnegut, I felt an odd sensation in the back of my head. It was making its presence known in the form of a thousand little legs, each as thin and sharp as a small needle, and it crawled in some zigs and then some zags until I could feel it make its way upwards through my hair and to the top of my skull.
Of course, by this time, my fingertips were frantically investigating the disturbance, but to no avail. There was no physical being rummaging around on my scalp, but still the feeling persisted.
With a quick and graceful leap over the edge of my bed, I rushed to the bathroom to find this needle-creature in the mirror. With my luck, though, the door was locked.
My roommates were taking a shower. Unfortunately, there wasn't any other place I could go to figure out what was trespassing on my body. So I did what any normal person would do. I kicked in the door to the bathroom.
I should specify, I think, because this gives a false impression that I went all Hollywood on this giant goddamned door and my premier foray into the martial arts dislodged it from the hinges, sending it tumbling about fifteen feet from the opening. First off, the bathroom is only eight by six or some such, so that just wouldn't be plausible. Second off, it turns out that our doors are made of balsa wood, because my foot went straight through that motherfucker. There was a clean hole that permeated both sides, within which my leg was now stuck. I started to hop frantically in an attempt to free myself, and my roommates were screaming at me as loud as they possibly could, but, in my current state, I couldn't be bothered to listen to what it was they were saying. I have only my imagination for that.
So, I finally escaped from the mouth--which is what I am calling it since I just recently decided to spray paint two large eyes in the immediate vicinity above the hole--and I reached through with my arm to turn the lock and grant myself access into a room that really shouldn't be closed off in the first place if such situations like the one I was presented with should arise. Needless to say, my two (ex)friends were unconcerned with my well being, and continued to shout at me as I started parting the hair on top of my head to find whatever it was that was attempting to eat my brain.
I was unable to see anything, but, having dealt with similar creatures in the past, I knew it was merely camouflaged and that the best remedy was to inflict some blunt force trauma to its fragile exoskeleton. At that moment, I wasn't in the best of mental states, and my roommates' screeches from beyond the shower curtains were beginning to cloud my judgment. Long story short, if I were to redo the whole thing, I probably would not have run head first into my roommates' door, which--funny story--happens to be made from the exact same material as the bathroom door. I can not even begin to describe the pain that splinters in your eyes cause.
Anyway, after I removed my head from the hole that I had just made in the other door, I realized that I seem to have a knack for finding studs through drywall.
So here's where the flashback kicks in.
I woke up and I wasn't in my apartment. I was in study hall back in my old high school. We're talking nearly a decade ago. It was the day that I took acid for my first time. I know it was that specific day because one of the first things I saw in the flashback was a kid named Zach sitting next to me and holding out a small paper square under the table. He was obviously waiting for me to take it. I had done in the past, of course, and the flashback was going to be no different. I placed the strip gently onto my tongue and cringed at the wave of bitterness that overtook my mouth. Apparently, it was totally going to be worth it. So I went along with whatever Zach said and played the waiting fame for a minute or too until that same tingling sensation started creeping up on the back of my head.
Motherfucking centineedlepedes!
I started to itch my head in a panic until I couldn't contain my ineffable desire to scream at the top of my lungs. This prompted an odd response from the rest of the people in my study hall, including Ms. Edmond's, who quickly rushed over to see why exactly I was writhing around on the floor.
I can't seem to find the exact words that would explain what I saw when I looked up at her face, so you're just going to have to let your imagination take you where it will. Now, Ms. Edmond's was a mildly attractive woman in her mid-30's, but when I stopped screaming for a moment, as per her request, I gazed upwards towards the sound of her voice to see strips of flesh slowly peeling off her cheekbones. Her teeth were falling out, her eyes were sunken in and the eyeballs themselves were decomposing into a hideous ooze that seeped out of the sockets and plopped into little pools on the floor next to me.
It didn't take long for me to grasp what little sanity I had retained and bolt the hell out of that class. (Interesting side note: the best time to escape from school while screaming and ripping apart your scalp is the time when some classes are in session, but block A lunch is still in the cafeteria; that way, most of the security guards are too busy breaking up fights and what not to bother chasing after a kid who is running through the exit and down the street while being pursued by something that is, apparently, extremely terrifying and itchy.)
The flashback was kind enough not to elaborate on the minute details of the day following my escape. I am sure that this was due to the trauma I endured after I fell from a sixth-story balcony just a mere hour after my excursion into the world of hallucinogens. More on that in a moment.
It was a quiet time of the day. I lived in a town that was basically lily-white, pretty rich, and very uptight. Apparently, the acid was telling me that it was very important that I disturb the equilibrium, because I attacked an old woman that was crossing the street after I had just witnessed her shed her clothes and skin. Some people tried to intervene, while others just stopped in their cars and stared, dumb-mouthed, as they dialed the police on their cellphones.
Again, I was on the run. I galloped through parking lots and back alleys, tumbled over bushes and car hoods, and generally made myself look as conspicuous as possible.
And then I saw it: The Herrington; a ritzy hotel where all of the socialites have saucy rendezvous with their bosses or mistresses. The building is made out of a pale stone, with wrought iron-fenced balconies that scale the entire building. It's all very classy. So, of course, this is where I needed to be. Yet, to my shock and horror, skinless military police guards stood out front of the main entrance that would grant me access to my room, and it suddenly occurred to me that I was on shore leave. I wasn't supposed to be tripping while on my day off, I was sure of it.
So, I formulated a fail-proof plan that involved me climbing up the outside of the building, balcony-to-balcony, so I could sneak into my room and let myself freak out in there alone.
Let's just say that it's true that we all have 20/20 hindsight. I know now, for example, that there were no military police stationed there. Furthermore, I know now that I was still fifteen at the time, and could not possibly be in the military. I also know that, when you realize you're hanging off of a balcony that belongs to a sixth floor hotel room with the city police and firefighters yelling for you to come down, your cognitive functions go to shit and the most reasonable way to get out of that predicament is to let go.
In real life, I hit the ground and shattered quite a few bones throughout my body (I also managed to kill the centineedlepede with my fall, by the way). In fact, it was apparently extremely lucky of me to actually survive in the first place, so I was happy to have the function of my right hand at the very least for the next year or so.
The flashback, though, decided it was just going to spare me the long months of recovery time as well, and I came to after I hit the ground in my mind.
I woke up a few days ago in a hospital surrounded by concerned family members and a doctor who was very persistent in his explanations of the delayed flashbacks related to LSD and what not. It was all very disconcerting. I had almost hoped that there really were centineedlepedes that would try to burrow into my brain, just so I knew that I wasn't clinically insane. Alas, life is unfair.
So, two days ago I was released and came home to a nearly empty apartment. A note was left behind from my roommates, who had decided it was time to seek another place of residence. Whatever... I took that as an opportunity to decorate as I saw fit (including my touching murals that incorporate the fresh holes in two of the doors), and start the search for people to live with who are a little more tolerant.
I guess what this all leads to is: any takers?
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
Holy shit.
And on a practical note, the balsa wood reference reminded me of why I hate apartment living. At least the apartments I can afford.