The Day I Died - Part II © 2010 Dakini Verona
I have no idea how long this went on – my fall from reality. It could have been a few nano seconds or a few days. Peaking on acid was sometimes like that. I finally saw a glimpse of reality: a cock roach skittered across the ceiling above where I was lying flat on my back. I found myself suddenly jerked back to reality. I looked around and tried to assess where I was. It was a bedroom, littered with street people. Some of them were sleeping, some talking, and some sitting in their own little worlds, like I had been- just a few moments earlier. This was a “crash pad”.
Crash pads were places where street people could “crash” for a night or two. No rent was collected and most of the time favors were not even asked. Most crash pads were safe, as long as there were enough people to watch out for each other. At least it got us off the streets and out of the snow. This particular crash pad was like most of the others that existed. It was down in the depths of the bowery, in the dirtiest part of New York’s Lower East Side. It was a five story walk up, meaning you had to climb five flights of stairs to get to the place. Each floor had two apartments and on the landing there was one toilet to be shared. You can imagine that that was like. Filth and grime on every inch and stench to match. Cockroaches shared all living spaces in those dumps. Inside the apartment was a small kitchen, a bedroom and a front room. The floors were wall to wall people, except for the kitchen. The kitchen was bare. The sink had a long white porcelain slab that served as a counter, but actually covered the bathtub. I had never experienced anything like that in my life… but now I was in an honest to God tenement.
I could feel another wave of the acid about to hit. I was going to peak again. The thoughts were again turning into colors. I tried to concentrate on the here and now and begin counting out loud. The words became visuals in front of my eyes. Each letter was a different wild color, floating up to the ceiling like helium balloons. But instead of popping, they all melted together. Was I speaking another language? Were the words understood by those around me? I looked into the faces of the other refugees and did not see anyone I recognized. I was alone in a crowded room. Paranoia, which was not a foreign feeling, began to take over. The thoughts were building and I knew I had to act quickly before I once again lost control over my reality, before I was again thrust down that rabbit hole.
To be continued…