There was once one man, who believed in the rain and only the rain. He sat on his front porch with a harmonica and played sad songs. The gray clouds rolled in, and the tunes would slowly turn to a major key.
Slow drizzles came from the sky, beating on his tin roof like a million chirping crickets. And in those moments, he was happy. But only in those moments.
Julius walked down the deserted main road of his quaint town with his hood up, as if there were people he had to hide his face from. His eyes moved along the fluorescent signs advertising cheap beer, cheap food, lottery tickets. He then moved down to the innards of these stores, the white lights white washing empty isles. His eyes then moved down to the pavement that moved below his feet, taking in every crack, and in his mind, each and every crack became the roots to a tree, and he’d follow the longest one until it tapered off, before picking up on another root. These roots in the pavement lead him to the only place where he’d find another human body.
He walked through the revolving doors of StrikeSlip. He saw all the blue doors were closed, except two.
“Took you long enough,” a young man said behind the counter, “I’ve been waiting all day for you.”
“Sorry. I had things to work out,” Julius answered.
“Like what? There’s no one out there.”
“People still have bills to pay.”
“That’ll change soon enough.”
Julius took another look down the long corridor, where behind every door he knew there were bodies after bodies reduced to the slip state. He thought back to when the drug was first introduced. He thought about the slogan: Escape. It was all looked down upon. It was served at less than reputable bars in a glass, mixed with gin. Usually taken by the divorced, the dying, and those who had recently lost someone to death. It was for those who couldn’t cope. Who couldn’t move on. Couldn’t look forward. But it spread like a virus until the seedy bars serving StrikeSlip in a glass with gin all uniformly changed their names to StrikeSlip, and made it available to consume intravenously. Now they looked more like celebrity pharmacies than seedy bars with sweat you could wipe from the bar. And towns were deserted. Cities were deserted. The only people who were still conscious were a collection of scientists and doctors. The ones who manufactured StrikeSlip.
“Regular dose?” the young man asked.
“No. Double it. End of the month. I wanna be out for a while.”
“Guess those bills got the better of you.”
“Yup.”
The young man took out a vile with a pink liquid inside. He put a sterilized needle into the vile, and drew out the pink liquid to about half of the needles capacity.
“Enjoy your escape.”
“Yeah.”
Julius walked down the long corridor to the very end, going into the last room and closing the door behind him. He layed down on the cot provided and stared at the pink liquid before he put the needle to his forearm. He injected the liquid into him and closed his eyes, laying on his back, arms at his side. He felt the familiar thin vibration in his bones as the drug struck his core. In slow motion, the humming of the lights in the room began to fade away. In the middle of the back of his eye lids, he could see a white dot that grew in time with the fading sound, until, finally, he heard nothing at the same time as he saw nothing but white. Then he felt nothing at all, slipping into his escape.
| Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. |
