It was a tiny creature, to begin with - a pet to take along to parties, a distraction for the empty hours when there were too many questions and not enough answers.
'This'll take your mind off things,' they said, those friends who made me so welcome - and I was thankful, genuinely grateful for the little pills which were my tickets to ride a happier highway. They were harmless - 'recreational', they were called - little playmates whose innocent appeal was irresistible.
I don't remember when they started to grow, or how quickly it happened. Like gremlins, they turned from furry little bundles of fun into something more sinister, less predictable, and sometimes downright scary. Strange thing was, my friends turned too. Less of the 'try one of these', and more of the 'pay up or else'; that's what I was getting, and that's when I started worrying about this habit I'd adopted as though it were a stray dog.
Addiction, that was its name; it loped along beside me, half domestic pet, half ravenous wolf, and it watched my every move, calculated my every penny, dictated my every decision. My parents sent me money for my birthday, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I stuffed it down the throat of the beast, knowing that within days it would be clamouring for more.
If it HAD been a dog, I'd have kicked it. I couldn't bear the way it lurked in the corner of the room, whimpering its need, gazing at me with hollow soulful eyes and making me want to curl up with the shame of starving it. I gave up everything for it. I fed it with everything I had, everything I could find...everything I could steal.
I went home, and hid the creature in the back of my wardrobe, where Mum wouldn't find it when she came to carry away the heaps of laundry I'd carried home in my smelly rucksack.
'You students...' she said coyly, ruffling my hair as though I was still five years old. And I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg her for help, ask her to drive away the monster in my head the way she'd made mincemeat of the monsters which lurked under my bed when I was tiny. If anyone could help, my Mum could...but I couldn't ask. I saw her love and pride and expectation, and I couldn't ask.
The monster followed me around, and I fed it snacks whenever I could; once or twice I raided Mum's purse, and gave it a proper meal, but it always wanted more. When it was time to leave, and Mum put me back on the train with my sweet-smelling bag of underwear and my farewell hug, it was crouched at my side, slavering and panting, longing for her to go so that we could slide into the cramped toilet and feed on our despair together.
She walked away down the platform ('I don't like goodbyes', she said in a wobbly voice) and the little boy inside me jumped out and ran after her, clutching at her sleeve and begging her not to leave. But I couldn't do that. I stayed with the monster, and now we sit in the carriage and the train chunters and rumbles its way north, and I know what I must do.
I can't feed the monster any more; it's eaten everything I have, and it's devouring my future, now. As soon as we leave the next station and pick up speed, I'm going to lure it out into the little space next to the toilets, where I can open a window and breathe the clean, pure air of the innocent countryside. Then I'm going to open the door a crack, and when the monster isn't expecting anything, I'll boot it out, as hard and as fast as I can, out into the unforgiving cold and speed and emptiness.
The door's so stiff; the wind forces it back. Someone's coming, shouting at me, and the monster is going to turn on them if I don't act quickly. There's nothing for it - I'll have to jump and take it with me. I'll be okay, I've had my magic flying pill. Here goes...
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.