Robo 1744

Note: This story is entirely nonfictional (except names have been changed), but I wrote it in a way intended to entertain the reader, rather than as a detailed factual account. I wrote it a few months ago, and the event happened over 8 years ago, so I don't remember the dose exactly, but it was somewhere between 1600 and 1800 mg.

Robo 1744

          8:00. Mom and Dad will be going to bed soon. Time to go up.

          “Goodnight.” I tell my parents.

          “Goodnight.” They both reply.

          Mike “goes up to bed", pretending to fall asleep. In reality, he’s stalling on his computer, one headphone in, listening keenly with his free ear, waiting for his opportunity to sneak out.

          Footsteps. Two pairs. They’re both going to bed. Their door closes. Wait thirty seconds. Times up.

          I get up, open my door, prepared to use the bathroom and go back to bed if necessary. Fortunately, their door is closed. I slowly close mine, cautious to be very gentle at the end. Next, I silently sneak down the steps, grabbing the railing to skip all but three steps which never creak. I walk through the front hall and kitchen, the easiest part, put my foot up against the backdoor, and open and close it without making a sound.

          As a precaution, I smoke a cigarette on the back deck. If they had heard me and followed, they’d just think I went out back to have a smoke. I’ve mastered the art of stealthy escape by now though, and finish the suicide stick uninterrupted.

          Mike begins his walk to meet up with Clare. Ten minutes on foot and he’s there, the trees near Shoppers. Unwilling to shoplift himself, but content with consuming stolen goods, Clare was providing the syrup for tonight.

          “I got one of these and four of these. Are they good?” Clare asks me.

          I check the active ingredients on the boxes that hold the bottles. The four were perfect, 536 mg of dextromethorphan-and only dextromethorphan- each. The odd one out was usable, but not optimal. Only 136 mg of dextromethorphan, and it contained guaifenesin.

          “The four are great. The other one we can use, but it’ll make us feel kinda sick.” I say.

          Two teenagers, chugging cough syrup under the pine trees at night. Clare downs one bottle, Mike two.

          “Do you want the other one?” I offer.

          “No, I can’t take any more right now.” She replies.

          “Mind if I help myself to it?” I ask.

          “Go for it.” She tells me.

          I gulp down the last pure bottle, adding up to 1618 mg, the most of this drug I’ve ever taken. Deep into the fourth plateau. It’ll take some time to kick in though.

          What a fascinating thing the mind of a teenage addict is. Immortal and invincible. That’s how Mike felt. A true psychonaut, he was ready to delve anywhere.

Logically, Mike knew he could permanently damage his brain at this dose, but he didn’t incorporate that knowledge into his decision making.

Thirty minutes in. I feel a slight drunkenness, but it’s very mild. A simple foreshadowing of the journey to come.

Clare takes a sip of the other bottle, swallowing about a third of it. Shortly after, she understands what I meant by “this might make you feel kinda sick.”

“It feels like the back of my throat is coated in slime.” She complains.

“I’ll drink it if you don’t want it.” I offer.

She passes me the bottle and I down it without consideration. Soon, I feel the mucus dripping down, the slime jacket that envelops my throat. It feels like my uvula is melting, or like I ate a blobfish. Anything to get me a little higher though. I can deal with the side effects.

Mike knows very well how much he took. Mike knows how ludicrously high he will get tonight. Mike even knows that at this dose he can fry his short-term memory permanently. Mike knows. But he doesn’t understand.

“C’mon, let’s walk around a bit.” Clare suggests.

“Alright.” I reply.

I like Clare. I’m not madly in love with her, but I do like her, I do feel some attraction. I’m pretty sure she likes me too. I get really nervous with girls, though, so we just hang out and nothing happens.

The two could-be paramours walk through the deserted shopping center, most shops being closed this late on a weeknight. They cut diagonally across a grassy field, through some trees, and cross the street. Then the drug hits the fifteen-year-old boy like a wall.

“I need to throw up.” I say. At least that’s what I hope I said. I have no real way of knowing if I can speak in an understandable manner right now.

“Okay, throw up.” Clare tells me.

I kneel down and start heaving. Nothing comes up. I’m tripping so hard now. I need this nausea to pass so I can enjoy myself. It’s a small comfort, however, that it’s happening to Mike, not to me. I get to just sit back and play Mike’s life, watching the ground that’s soon to be covered in vomit like a video game. Of course, I know I am Mike, but I don’t feel I am Mike.

“I can’t throw up.” Mike finally announces.

“Okay then let’s go.” Clare says.

“I can’t, I’m too nauseous.” He replies.

“Then throw up.”
          “I can’t.”
          “I’ll help you.”

Clare straddles on top of his back and starts pushing back and forth, rubbing her crotch on his spine to induce vomiting. And you thought your romance was awkward. Eventually, it works, though, and Mike purges his guts. However, he feels no less nauseous.

“I gotta get home soon.” Clare says.

I don’t know what’s going on. The plot of this movie makes no sense, and it’s real life. I need to take it seriously. It’s real life. I need to remind myself that it’s real life. I might forget.

Suddenly, we’re walking. Mike’s walking at least. I feel like I’m lying down in bed, feeling Mike’s movements through a veil, watching life through his eyeballs like a T.V. I am real. Mike is a show. I must take that show seriously. I’m on a drug and will be returning to live in the show tomorrow.

The G throttle is so intense. I feel like I’m being tossed around. It’s like Jupiter’s gravity is pulling me everywhere I move. I feel like I’m being tossed around. Did I already say that? No, I’m thinking, not talking.

I’m on the ground. It is dreadful. I am a homeless eleven-year-old in North Carolina, and I am on the ground. I ran away from my wilderness program, and I’m on the ground. I have no place to go, and I’m on the ground. I’m on the ground, and the ground is a dreadful place.

“Mike, I need to go home. You gotta get up.” Clare tells him. Mike hears the sounds, but he does not understand the words. She might as well have said it in Japanese.

“Mike, you gotta get up. I need to go home.” The girl repeats.

Mike cannot move. Even if he could, he couldn’t understand why he has to. In Mike’s world, he’s four years younger and in a different state. He ran away and is living on the streets. He has no home, and he cannot go back to his parents. Mike’s mind is far from being present in reality.

“Mike, I need to get home or I’ll get in trouble.” Clare pleads. A moment of clarity. I’m on a drug and if I don’t do what I’m told my friend will get in trouble.

“I will go home now.” I robotically announce as I bolt upright.

“Thank you, Mike.” Clare tells me as she hugs the body I’m visiting.

We both start walking separate ways. I hear a bloodcurdling scream. Someone just got stabbed. I’m in The Purge.

Although Mike was able to obtain a vague conception of reality for a brief moment, he quickly returned to disconnect. Initiated by his friend calling out ‘bye’, he believed he was now in the horror movie ‘The Purge.’ Someone had been stabbed, although to Mike it was a stranger, him having already forgotten Clare was just with him. Despite losing lucidity, Mike’s intent remained unaltered.

I must get home. I need to get to safety or I’ll be killed in the purge. The man in the bowler hat in following me.

The G-force is intense. Whoosh! That’s what every step is like. I’m being tossed around. I can’t fall though. If I fall, I won’t get back up and the man in the bowler hat will get me.

No one was following Mike. It’s probably best that he believed someone was, though, as it ensured his arrival at home safe and sound. Upon his return to his abode, he successfully snuck in, spent a few hours on his laptop, then went to bed. It truly is a blessing that he lived long enough to tell the tale.