Blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, hopped up on angel dust with the angel of death…
Jeremy left the rehab center with a fragile sense of triumph, the kind that teetered on the edge of collapse. As he stepped onto the bustling street, the familiar pangs of anxiety slithered down his spine, pressing on him like a shadow that refused to lift. Jeremy didn’t tell anyone he was leaving. His father tried to call him a few times. “You’re better off without me,” he thought every time he saw his dad’s name flash on the screen.
He adjusted the straps on his backpack and looked down the street. He realized it was too late to catch a bus, and besides, he didn’t know where he’d even go. Pennsylvania was only a few hours away, but what was waiting for him there? His father, remarried and happy, living with his new family in the same house that no longer felt like home. And after everything he’d done, after the fights, the money he’d stolen, and the years he’d disappeared into his habit, how could he walk back through that door?
Instead he found himself standing at the edge of the park with the cold wind biting at his skin. The bench loomed before him in the half-light, stark against the dark sprawl of Prospect Park. It had been a year since he’d last been there—since the summer day he’d nearly died. Yet, here he was again, caught in the cruel symmetry of a life that never seemed to move forward.
He felt the relentless sun that day, blazing overhead as he shivered uncontrollably. He hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t slept in longer. His temperature spiked to 102, and every joint in his body ached as if he were being crushed from the inside out. It wasn’t just the fever; it was everything else—his life unraveling at the seams.
As he scanned the unfamiliar streets of Brooklyn, he realized he’d just lost everything—his home, his job, his girlfriend – the only people that made his life bearable. Not knowing how to grapple with reality, he decided to blur his ostensibly shitty existence with copious amounts of drugs. Poison of choice: heroin mixed with a Xanax cocktail. He had the syringes, all he needed was a place to shoot them.
He spotted the neon sign for a Dunkin’’ Donuts, flickering faintly in the distance. The familiarity of it pulled him in. He pushed through the door, barely registering the smell of coffee and fried dough. The cashier didn’t even glance his way as he slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.
His hands shook as he set the syringe on the edge of the sink, staring at his hollowed out reflection in the mirror. It was hard to pinpoint the moment he had chosen this life. Maybe it wasn’t a choice at all.
He reflected on his past and remembered his mother’s kind, soft face, and how she was always there for him, even when life made it impossible. She did everything she could to raise him as a single parent, juggling work, bills, and his endless questions about why his father wasn’t around. All the while, his dad was happily remarried and living in Pennsylvania to a woman half his age. Jeremy hated the way his father doted on his half-sister, providing her with the childhood he had never been given. A childhood filled with stability, opportunities, and love—the kind of love his dad never seemed interested in giving him.
By seventeen, Jeremy’s resentment grew too heavy to carry. He decided he didn’t want to live with his mom anymore and convinced himself that maybe his father could give him the life he’d always wanted. But his father’s new life had no room for him. Instead, Jeremy was sent to live with his grandparents in Brooklyn, where the bitterness inside him festered. Anger turned into rebellion. He’d started skipping school, smoking weed in the parking lot with kids who barely knew his name. Then came the pills, and then heroin.
It wasn’t until he was spiraling that his dad finally seemed to care. Suddenly, he was stepping in, forcing Jeremy to move to Pennsylvania so he could “help” him. He put rules in place, cut Jeremy off from his friends, and kept a close watch on him. But by then, it was too late. The damage was done. “Where was he when I really needed him?” Jeremy thought bitterly.
He could still remember the nights his father had driven around town, searching for him. He’d call, plead with Jeremy to come home, but Jeremy would always push him away. “I don’t need you,” he’d shout, slamming the phone down or walking off into the night, leaving his father’s words behind like a trail of cigarette smoke.
And now, here he was. A stranger to himself, haunted by the choices he made and the ones made for him.
The needle bit into his vein, and for a moment, the world disappeared. But that relief was fleeting. The fever burned hotter, and his hands began to shake. His vision blurred. He remembered staggering toward the sink, his breath shallow and panicked. Then, nothing.
Jeremy blinked, the memory fading like smoke. His body ached as if the fever had never left him, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was still standing in Prospect Park or lying on the floor of that bathroom.
The bench loomed in front of him, its worn wood catching the faint light of a distant streetlamp. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him, but the cold wasn’t what made his chest feel heavy. It was the weight of the past, pressing down on him like the fever that had nearly killed him a year ago.
He hadn’t thought about that day in months. Not since the hospital. Not since the doctor told him he was lucky to be alive. But was it luck to survive when nothing had changed? When you were still the same person, making the same mistakes?
“It’s been a year,” he thought. “And I’m still here. Why?”
But he already knew the answer. He’d barely made it out of the hospital that day before slipping back into the same patterns that had brought him there in the first place. He remembered the exact moment he stepped out of Coney Island Hospital. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed faintly as the automatic doors hissed open, letting the humid summer air slap him in the face.
There had been a counselor who tried to stop him before he left, her voice fading in the background as she said, “We can help you. We can get you into detox.” But Jeremy had brushed her off, mumbling something about needing to get home, even though he had no intention of going there. Home wasn’t a place, it was an idea he hadn’t believed in for years.
The truth was, he didn’t have a plan. His only thought was to find a fix. The fever had passed, but the hunger remained. With just ten dollars in his pocket, he wandered into the city, unsure of where to go but certain of what he needed.
The streets of New York City were a blur of movement and noise, filled with bright lights and hopeful faces. “God, I hate those damned faces,” he muttered, scowling at the hordes of tourists cluttering Times Square.
His steps faltered as he came across a man sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign propped up in front of him: “Hungry and homeless. Please help.” A tattered cup sat beside it, filled with loose change and a few crumpled bills.
The man looked up as Jeremy slowed. His face was worn and weathered, his eyes tired but sharp. “Got any change?” the man asked, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.
Jeremy hesitated. “Nah,” he muttered, his fingers curling around the ten-dollar bill in his pocket, observing the old man and his setup.
“It’s all a numbers game,” he thought, inspired by the sign, the cup, and the strategic placement by the foot traffic.
Later that night, Jeremy found himself in a 24-hour Starbucks, nursing a bottle of water he’d picked up at a nearby bodega. He had borrowed a piece of cardboard from the man and scribbled something vague on it: “Anything helps. Thank you.” He placed it next to a paper cup and settled into one of the comfier chairs near the back of the shop.
The night had passed in a haze of half-sleep and aching hunger. By the time morning rolled around, Jeremy was surprised to find a ten-dollar bill crumpled in the cup. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
He spent the rest of the day roaming the dimly lit streets of the Lower East Side, clutching the money in his hand like a lifeline. Surrounded by the grimaces of the downtrodden and impoverished, he felt himself teetering on the edge. “I need to find something soon,” he thought, his mind wavering between self-preservation and the seductive pull of addiction.
Jeremy’s chest tightened as the memory faded, the Starbucks and the homeless man dissolving into the dark expanse of the park around him. That crumpled ten-dollar bill had once felt like hope. Now, it was just proof that he had never left the cycle.
The bench beneath him felt solid and cold, grounding him in the present even as his mind kept dragging him back to the past. He stared at the faint outline of the stars above, their light distant and indifferent.
Why did I survive that day? he thought again, the question rattling around in his head. But he didn’t have an answer. All he had was the weight of his choices, pressing down on him like the cold night air.
The memories came rushing back again, sharp and relentless. The hospital. The streets. The Starbucks. The hunger.
And then—him.
The man in the black coat. The piercing green eyes. The voice that had cut through the noise of the city like a blade.
It was the third night after Jeremy had left the hospital. The Starbucks trick hadn’t worked as well the second time around, and the city had started to feel colder and more unwelcoming. His body ached, his stomach growled, and the ten dollars he’d found in the cup the night before had long since disappeared.
By the time he wandered into a 24-hour McDonald’s, his hands were shaking. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly, giving the space an unnatural glow. The booths were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers—homeless men nursing cups of black coffee, teenagers scrolling through their phones, an old woman mumbling to herself in the corner.
Jeremy collapsed into a booth near the back, his head resting against the cold plastic of the seat. His body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. The hunger was unbearable, the withdrawal even worse.
And then, a shadow fell over his table. Jeremy blinked, looking up. A man stood before him—impossibly tall with his black coat draped over his frame like a second skin. His features were sharp and his green eyes burned with an intensity that made Jeremy’s breath catch in his throat.
“You don’t look homeless,” the man said, his gaze flickering to the backpack beside Jeremy, to the worn but clean hoodie he was wearing. His voice was smooth, unnervingly calm.
Jeremy swallowed. Something about the man unsettled him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.
“Why are you here with your sign?” the man asked, his voice laced with curiosity, as if he already knew the answer.
Jeremy hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why he was here, why he was anywhere.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if studying him, reading something beneath the surface. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, holding it between two fingers.
“Smoke this,” he said.
Jeremy stared at the offering—a blunt, thin and expertly rolled. There was something about the way the man held it, something deliberate, almost ceremonial.
Jeremy hesitated for only a moment before taking it. Free drugs were free drugs.
He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, holding it in as long as he could. And then—it hit him.
It was like a bullet train crashing into his consciousness, a sudden onslaught that sent him spiraling down a rabbit hole. His reality began to warp, forcing him to question his existence and the choices that had led him to this point. “Why am I here?” he pondered, his mind racing. “Why didn’t I go home?” He had options – his father’s place in Pennsylvania, his mother’s home, or his grandparents’ house in New York. Yet, he had chosen a life on the streets, a life of drugs and self-imposed exile.
His head snapped up, his eyes locking onto the man. “What… what is this?” His voice crackling as he coughed.
“Angel dust,” the man said simply.
Jeremy’s thoughts were a blur, a rapid-fire succession of questions with no answers.
“Who is this guy? What’s he doing here? What am I doing here” he pondered, his gaze fixed on the man before him.
He ventured a question, but the man’s silence was more unnerving than any response.
“So, what’s next for you after this?” Jeremy inquired, his eyes searching the man’s face for a clue, any clue.
“Going home,” the man stated.
“Where is home?” Jeremy pressed.
“Up There,” the man gestured skyward.
“Up where?” Jeremy’s curiosity spiked.
“Just there,” the man insisted. “Come with me.”
Jeremy paused, a flicker of realization crossing his mind. “It’s my time, isn’t it?”
The man nodded affirmatively. “Yes, it’s time. Come.”
Jeremy’s mind spiraled, his thoughts unraveling faster than he could catch them. His pulse roaring in his ears. He turned to ask the man something, anything—but he was gone. The space where he had stood was empty, as if he had never been there at all.
The memory dissolved, but the ache it left behind was sharper than ever.
That night had been the first time he’d seen the man. But it wouldn’t be the last.
His thoughts flickered like dying embers, each memory burning out before he could hold onto it.
He thought of the night he almost called his dad—the night he lay paralyzed on a stranger’s mattress, too sick to move, his phone clutched in his shaking hands, scrolling to his dad’s number. His thumb hovering over the call button for what felt like hours.
But he hadn’t pressed it.
What would he even say? “Hey, Dad, it’s me, your screw-up son. Can you pick me up from this crackhouse and pretend everything’s fine?” No. He couldn’t do that to him. His dad deserved better than the version of Jeremy that existed now.
And so, he’d put the phone down and stayed where he was, sinking deeper into the life he’d chosen.
His fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the small plastic bag. The powder inside was nearly weightless, barely a dusting of white against the plastic.
Heroin. Fentanyl.
Jeremy took out the syringe, his hands moving with a familiar rhythm, almost mechanical. The ritual unfolding in his lap. He had done this a thousand times before. It should have felt easy.
The wind stilled. The night hushed. Tonight there was something different in the air. As he pushed the plunger into his vein and let the warmth rush through him—he saw him. A shadow in the distance, unmistakably tall, and moving toward him with a slow, deliberate grace. His green eyes were cutting through the fog like two beacons. The man was exactly as Jeremy remembered—calm, poised, and impossibly out of place in the desolate park.
Jeremy’s breath hitched. “Is it time?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
The man didn’t speak. He simply extended his hand, his expression unreadable.
As his vision faded, Jeremy felt a strange sense of peace. The bench, the park, the stars—they blurred together as the darkness took him.
The last thing he saw was the man’s outstretched hand, beckoning him into the void.
And then, there was nothing.
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