Ssk. ssk. My neck twists itself slightly; I can never ever handle my ticks after a few hits. Even though I know that my addictions, my "demons", wrestle my body from me whenever I give them a chance, I can never resist this buzz. Sacrificing myself, transforming into a puppet to be manipulated and contorted, has always felt so....right. This feeling of nothingness, of emptiness crawling through my veins and into my thoughts, has always soothed me. Marijuana is amazing, and although my bud from tonight smelled...off, I gratefully accepted my high. Even if it wasn't from my same reliable friend who had gotten caught selling harder stuff last month and been locked away, this weed was long awaited. I typically am very picky about my bud; that's why I had the same dealer for the last decade or so: he provided time and time again, always with pure cannabis for a relatively decent price. Tonight though, without him to turn to and my mind screaming for a little THC relaxation, I slowly strutted up to the man on the corner, the infamous "street dealer". But after I had taken a few puffs of his product back in my truck, I felt satisfied. Ssk. Except for these goddamn ticks! I've never reacted so harshly to any joint before.
I'm lost. My truck's clock says 2:12, how long have I been out? Did I just fall asleep, or lose consciousness? I lift my head, spit flopping out of my mouth and onto my dashboard and the sky, a fusion of red and purple hues, tells me far more about how gone I am than how long it's been since I hit the blunt. That wasn't normal weed... no, it couldn't have bee- I'm hungry. Stumbling out of my car I begin to crawl into the gas station I found myself parked in front of. As I reach up to pull the door open, I feel enraged. How could that man trick me!? How could I pay twice what I used to for this!?
The cashier isn't even human. A demon, maybe Satan himself mumbles to me through a haze. I scream, nothing comprehendible but definitely something malicious. But Satan doesn't back down, he doesn't walk away, in fact, he seems puzzled at my disgust and demeanor and slowly begins to walk around the counter and towards me, grasping a blade in his right hand. He's not strong. He's not even particularly aggressive as I squeeze his neck with a suffocating grip. His knife falls to his side and his body slowly stops squirming, he finally closes his eyes and rests. My anger subsides, replaced more with a burning feeling of triumph for slaying the devil himself. I drag myself towards the counter to grab a pack of cigarettes, but once arriving decide to prop myself up against the side of the glass to sleep.
When I realize where I am, I glance across the ceiling to the far wall, where the clock says 5:47 (presumably a.m.). As my gaze slowly drops towards the floor and my surroundings I stop breathing. My heart stutters, my mind empties, my muscles freeze. A corpse of a small Indian man lay 5 feet away from my feet. His neck is violet, and handprints tattoo his throat.
"What were you doing the night of April 3rd, sir? Were you, or were you not present at the 7/11 on the corner of 101st and Chase?" the prosecutor demanded. "I...I didn't know what I was doing..."