Towards the Flame – Always

If you choose to dance with the devil do you ever win?

I’ve always stepped towards the flame – not away. Been fascinated by the insanity of others, the threat of danger, taunting others to do their worst and throwing their attempts in their face. Believing I deserved the slashes of deep pain. I’m still standing. Hurt me some more – I dare you.

Speed , scotch and shots.

Speed, scotch and shots on a Sunday afternoon after party in St Kilda. Nothing new or different about the day – I was bone weary, months of sleepless nights and days blending into one. A spinning top – when I’ll stop I didn’t know – yet I wasn’t done.  Falling into bed on Monday nights, sometimes Tuesday nights only to restart the party on Thursday night and the madness starts again.

Matchboxes full of speed – my standard weekend – I was beyond grams, ounces and lines. No measurements required – how much speed does a matchbox hold? I didn’t know and didn’t care. Spilled one in the car? Doesn’t matter – here’s another box. By the way – hold my gun before I hold it to your head – again. I laughed and told you off – as I did the first time you pointed a gun at me. Your name sealed the deal – Ian’s were to always be trouble – and sugar daddies. I always knew I’d be a better friend than a lover – every man and boy I’ve said that to took it as a challenge. They thought they could capture me, that I had a heart under the cold ice exterior. I don’t. I have razors they would slash themselves on trying to prove their worth.

This weekend the Little Ray of Sunshine, her boyfriend and I were at a bar – shots not even touching the sides. We were dancing with eccys flowing through our body – feeling the love and peace. When he first ran through to the back of the club, stark naked, everyone turned to see the spectacle and laugh. Laughter soon turned to horror as the black clothed goons chased him behind the dark, black stage curtains at the back of the club. There was only darkness in the back – his skinny white body emanciated – his ribs stark against the black and red velvet drapes. His  body falling to the dirty sticky floor, the goons laying into him with their boots against his defenceless white body. His cries turned to screams. The goons started wrestling him through the club towards the light of the doorway. Everyone looking on in horror. Stepping away. Away from the naked, bleeding body of the now screaming man – in a headlock – trying to get away from the thugs. I find myself stepping forward – hands outstretched towards him – the horror on his face – the blood on his hands and in his hair. Transferred to my hands.

I’m yanked back by my friends – away from the danger – not fast enough to stop the splash of blood onto my face. The music has stopped. There is a stunned silence. Then the music flares once again and the club starts dancing, rhythms and waves willing the horror out of our minds. Yet I cannot lose myself in the music or the drugs. I must leave.

I stumble out of the club. Into the street. Stark sunshine blinding me. The goons black clothing disorientating me further – where is the way out? What is real?  I see glass shards sparkling on the pavement in the harsh hot sunshine. My gaze follows the glass trail to the gutter – there’s more glass, surrounding a rubbish bin. A street sign. Splashes of red amongst the shards. I look at my hands – the red blood mimics the red splashed on the glass. The red on the pavement. The red on the whiteness of vulnerable buttocks. I realise with horror it’s the man from the club. Tossed into the gutter by the goons. It’s clear he’s unconscious, covered in blood. The goons are looking the other way. Men – boys – hover over the inert body – arguing over whether to call the cops or an ambulance. They’re told be the goons to move on – they argue with them – they aren’t responsible for their friends behaviour – they want back in to the after party club. All the while their friend is bleeding on the footpath at their feet.

With horror I realise that half an hour had passed since the assault and no ambulance had been called. I abuse the goons, the spectators, the friends of the man until I’m dragged away by my friends – it’s not safe to lose your shit in St Kilda.

We leave the scene – never knowing what was to become of the man. That’s when we started seeing blood everywhere we went to party – the times had changed. The drunks had infiltrated the rave scene and the violence had escalated – the crazies were making lots of money. And I was hanging out with one of them – as a friend only until he realised I would never become his lover. No matter how much money, drugs or gifts he gave me – I was not ready to stop partying. He was tired of the drugs. I was sad to see the drugs go, yet knew that the time had come for me to move on.

Away from that flame that had dwindled – towards another fire. My self harming was not finished.

I was not yet ready to stop stoking the fire.

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The Adventures (or Misdemeanors) of Isabella – Part 1.

Forgive me for the following – this must be written in the 3rd person for me to allow this to see the light of day – Isabella

Saturday afternoon and Isabella is lazing on the couch after a long, busy week at work. She is extremely tired – cannot stop yawning however she has tried to sleep without any luck – her brain will not stop and her body is not tired. However she is absolutely exhausted – a disgusting feeling.

Laying on the couch, Isabella fantasizes about a glass of cold white wine and pecan pie … she tries to distract herself, however not with any real intent on doing so. She has already made up her mind – pecan pie and white wine is in order despite the fact she spent the last week either drunk or hung over every day of the week. The drinking demon has been calling and Isabella has been answering – every 2nd day she has been smashed.

Finally, at a decent hour, once lunch rush is over, and she recognises there is no getting out of it, she heaves herself off the couch, announces to him that she is going out for coffee and won’t be long. Isabella knows that she has 1-2 hours max, and that she daren’t dress up out of harem pants and t-shirt just in case she gets drunk and continues to party on.

Ha. What a joke – she had no idea what was to come.

So she goes to a nearby cafe and has a *few* glasses of sparkling red wine, then walks to the closest pub and has a couple …. ok. ….. 5 glasses of white wine in an hour. Yep. In an hour. If you are doing the math, Isabella manages to pack away 8 – 9 drinks in less than 2 1/2 hours on Saturday afternoon.

She makes it home within a decent time – at least the 2 hours she had said. Luckily she hadn’t driven as all the amenities are within walking distance.

She then proceeds to share a bottle of sparking wine (champagne in the old terminology, bubbles for the cute) with him over dinner. Well.. Actually. He had two glasses and Isabella finished the bottle.

Well. It WAS Saturday night.

At around 10.30 they decided to go to bed – Isabella waited until she heard him snoring before she put her makeup on, got changed, put her cards and cash in her back pocket and snuck out of the house. She chose not to take her mobile phone – god knows why.

Walking to the pub, she is fully aware of what she is doing and why. She wants to party and she needs to have some FUN!

Isabella is feeling cute, fun and flirtatious – a little like Alice in Wonderland – too funky and retro to stay at home at least.

After 20 minute walk, Isabella gets to the pub and it is pumping…..walking up to the bar, Isabella is feeling in control and completely sober…. She knows that she definitely will not be  going home with a guy for a one night stand – she has never done so and never will. She is there to have fun and let her hair down with some innocent fun, dancing and drinking.

A couple of glasses of bubbly kick-start the night, followed by vodka and soda.Isabella has loosened up and started to scan the pub crowd for a likely connection – correct – likely connection. She has slid into the 2nd stage of her addiction – the scoring of drugs – speed preferably.

To be continued.



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