He kept seeing the inner city wars. Masked youths hurling petrol bombs and stones. Lines of riot police silhouetted against a backdrop of orange flames. Something hurt him, made him cry in his sickness. Although he was sure he was firmly on the side of the rioters he somehow felt guilty. There was something curling away like smoke in his imagination, some kind of social succubus that was fucking with him and perverting his place in things. He thought of the heroin dealers he had known over the years, almost all exclusively young black and West Indian. He thought of his compromised status as an addict and the power they exerted over him, how he cursed them and damned them, young kids of 15 slapping him in the face, ripping his money out his hands with contempt and spitting his bags of heroin and crack on the ground so as he'd have to get on his hands and knees and search about for them. The memories swamped him. He drifted off into the hellfire of previous years and news reports, right into those orange flames which had ignited England in the 1980's. And through the flames he saw animals, vultures, hordes of black youths holding up a dismembered police man's head in celebration. And he knew by how he felt, from what he saw in his minds-eye, that he was guilty too, that he was not a black man, that he came from the side that had caused this ethnic divide and hatred, that he could ever so easily cut his hair, put on a clean shirt and slip back unseen across to the safe side,
Jesus dreamed he was smoking. There were pains in his arms and in his sides and he groaned as he once again saw the crucifixion. In his state he grimaced as the nails were banged in through his wrists and ankles and then he imagined himself hung up there, pinned by four large 10ml syringes, saring out at the world and hoping his lover could see him then. And then he would see his mother. Pleading with him like Mary Magdalene, blaming herself for the fate of her son. Jesus forgave her but enjoyed her seeing him suffer, enjoyed telling her that it was not her fault and all was firgiuven as his life blood dripped free. He had a lot of guilt and in the possession of heroin sickness he would be dragged back through it all.
Word count: 414
Jesus dreamed he was smoking. There were pains in his arms and in his sides and he groaned as he once again saw the crucifixion. In his state he grimaced as the nails were banged in through his wrists and ankles and then he imagined himself hung up there, pinned by four large 10ml syringes, saring out at the world and hoping his lover could see him then. And then he would see his mother. Pleading with him like Mary Magdalene, blaming herself for the fate of her son. Jesus forgave her but enjoyed her seeing him suffer, enjoyed telling her that it was not her fault and all was firgiuven as his life blood dripped free. He had a lot of guilt and in the possession of heroin sickness he would be dragged back through it all.
Word count: 414
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