Marijuana

Samuel Godwin was in a state. That was how he put himself, the phrase he always used for his present condition. It was so long-lasting that it seemed to have taken the whole world, making him afraid of silence and of everything he could see and hear and just as frightened as what he couldn’t see. As the state intensified, a huge bubble of fear like a glass ball enclosed him so that he wanted to beat and thrash at its curved walls. Sometimes he did, even out in the street like this, and people crossed the road to avoid this madman who punched at the empty air.

The state had not yet reached this level tonight, nor did he have any pain or nausea. But beyond walking to his destination, walking became mechanical. Sometimes he thought he could have walked forever, on and on, over the dark lawns, the green peak, the snowcapped mountains in the north of the country, to the fields and woods far beyond.

Soon, as the state was prolonged, trembling started and the sick feeling and great weakness intensified as if he were aging in years in as many seconds. Samuel waited for one whole minute before crossing the road, holding on to the railings now, just another drunk to passersby, turning clumsily into a secluded corner and pushing open the gate into the ruined garden. A house loomed above him in the distance. Its windows were gone, leaving black pits. He scrambled down into the basement, black but with gleam of oil lamp in its depth. He scrambled down, scratching his hands on brambles, trying to avoid the coils of barbed wire. There, at the bottom, a thin shaft from the lamp dimly lighted his seat on the coping, he shivered and hunched his body before feeling in the pocket of his jacket for the material.

They were kept in a red velvet drawstring bag, the kind of thing a box containing a ring or necklace is put in a jeweler’s shop. Samuel found it in his jacket by sheer good luck. He pulled out a drinking straw still in its plastic wrapping, a discarded soft-drink can and a cigarette lighter before taking out the black, herb-like substance between finger and thumb. His hands were shaking but that didn’t matter, as all he had to do was crumble the substance up. He then dropped it through the opening into the can, striking the lighter. The second flame was set to the perforations he took the straws into his mouth, and drew a deep inhalation. At this, the first draw, he always made a noise. It was a sound of joy, of orgasmic happiness, but to others it would have seemed like a groan of despair.

He grunted his satisfaction. The drug took a few seconds to reach the brain and it changed him into another kind of person. The state receded like something evil in a dream being sucked away out of the door. It struggled as it went, but the door closed and clouds of warmth filled its space, and sweet singing the hope. He closed his eyes, feeling strong and immensely happy. The herbal scent of marijuana always reminded him of his, or used to be his, own small flat, which was also the reason why he chose it in such depression. He indulged in this milieu, almost intangible, contemplating how he had spent this week—or so he thought, since he could not clearly remember how long he had left his wife after her last quest for money.

Suddenly he heard a noise and sharply looked back over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway up there was his Clara, more delicate than ever, but in a rather ghastly manner. Sam felt blood surging up his inner being and flushed his face. It had to be a phantom shape, he thought. But it was not. It spoke.

"Sam," she quavered, her weak voice almost cracked into a squeak. "Where have you been in the last ten days? I’ve been searching for you in every corner of the city. I thought you were gone..." It tailed off from what seemed like an accusation into some sub-audible notes.

Her husband stood up. He walked upstairs slowly and tentatively, half in disbelief and half in guiltiness, toward the petite figure only a few metres away. He looked older than his age, a little worn, which was natural after so much illness and stress and surely self-abandonment. His features would have been handsome but for his pallor. He held out both his hands, watching her, his upper lip slightly curled back in a rueful expression she had never seen since one year ago. She must have heard it a mutter, a low growl.

Samuel, after every fresh intake of cannabis, always felt a new lease of life injected into his body. It made him more rational, if he was anything possessed a little ration in the state, and more sentimental. And this time it was no exception. He put his arms around Clara like an embrace, tears streaming down his face unconsciously. It was no phantom, it was really his wife, now in his arms breathing heavily. She must had accidentally caught sight of me in the street and followed me here, he speculated, before lost in the regret of having left her so brutally only because she asked for even more money. After the flop in her career last year she had been transformed into a bottomless pit for money. But why did that matter? It was not her fault. On the contrary, he was indeed unforgivable to be found taking drugs in his absence, red-handed. He closed his eyes, caressing her like a father to his lost child.

His wife had to hold her breath to keep out his a fishy, earthy smell. Out of sympathy perhaps or empathy, and definitely out of her expectation, she watched him come forward, and she felt his arms that had gone round him squeeze in a hug. So tight up it almost strangled her. But she didn’t want his love back, she wanted money. Clara struggled to free her left hand with which she took a knife under her blouse.

"It’s all over, Sam. You are the loser." She looked terrible when she laughed, her face more like a skull than usual.

He however couldn’t see or hear it. There was a moment of darkness, a seeing of stars whizzing across black sky. He staggered and fell over, first to his knees, then sprawled on his back, He thought he felt a hand fumbling in the pocket of his bomber jacket. He groaned and made feeble movements. Then he hear footsteps retreating, but not too far away. Gingerly he felt his scalp and looked at his fingers. There was blood, but not enough to drain his life away.

Struggling to a sit-up position, Samuel saw his wife squatting in the shelter of holly hedge, trembling like a fleshless bird in vain attempt to dry itself after the storm. The familiar aroma wafted into his nostril, ringing up the senses that had been for so long buried deep in his mind. Clara must had started her business with marijuana for a long time. That arousing smell, that insatiable desire for money, that inside-out alteration of her character.

He lay down on the mattress as the panic attack started and buried his face in the humid grass. A huge empty loneliness isolated him and he whimpered. He pounded his fists on the floorboards, feeling shaky, weak and old, and his muscles would jump. Here among the trees, in the dense boskiness, it was still dark, the shadows darker than they ever are by day. There was no sound of traffic, no wind blowing, only a heavy silence. The sky astonished him, it was a clear jewel-like unclouded blue. He turned away from the sight of her, from that tower of silence and looked up instead at the clear, blue, remorseless sky. Then he staggered to his feet, reaching for Clara for her final judgement.