“Hi, my name’s Eric and I’m an addict.”
I cleared my throat, a cold Styrofoam coffee clutched in my hands.
”For the last, like… eight months, I’ve been addicted to scag.
I wouldn’t usually be here, but things have gotten pretty bad,
and I figured this was my last chance to return to the right path.
I ascribed to a culture that I only started living in my 20th year
but had recently learned shit that confirmed my heaviest fears.
It wasn’t strength but savagery, from the skald to the seers,
seeking to shed blood over their swords and spears.
It was a moment of identity that history had run through,
and so, learned; I burned every piece I clung to,
but I still see omens, even knowing they’re untrue.
A white dude feeling guilty about things I couldn’t undo.
It cracked an already fragile foundation,
founded by my grandad, his back bad and already aching,
prattling adages seemingly addled by ages
that advocated patience and strength in the face of any battles awaiting…
and there I was, needle down. Bare is the back of a brotherless man.
I’m an addict, admittedly, but I’d never admitted it ‘til I struggled to stand.”
They applauded when I finished - witnesses. An alibi that was part of the plan.
I left the room silently, hoping to amend soon for a past with fresh blood on the land.
The air was windy and cold. Frost-tinted windows of cars parked under a solitary light’s glow,
and two blokes stood by an old Chevy, eyes heavy with a quiet hope that it might snow.
I smiled politely and strolled by as thunder rumbled, turning the block.
I got to my car, fumbled in my pocket, pressed the key to the lock,
and got in - my head fogged and my eyes glued to the glovebox,
my willpower waning from sight like the Víkingr’s boats after they’d shoved off.
I was pulled from my woes by a loud caw;
A raven alighted the vehicle’s hood with a dead mouse in its southpaw,
claw tapping gently on the metal as it steadily tilted its head
and surveyed me, a mere mortal treading on the realm of the dead.
I breathed in deeply and opened the glovebox; my heart was tired.
Across the street, an old man closed his curtains as a car backfires
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