The Needle and the Abyss

The alleyway reeks of sin, shame and filth, Tijuana by night with its garish neon lights casting long, unhealthy shadows. It's here, on the ground, that the man finds himself, a syringe in his hand, the only truth he still knows. The cold pavement chisels at his buttocks, but what does it matter? Nothing matters when the venom runs through his veins.

The metal beast penetrates her flesh, and for a moment, hell becomes paradise. The venom, that cursed heroine, works its way through his body, turning off alarms, clouding thoughts. It's a sensation he knows well, one that dispossesses him of himself, offering a welcome respite from raw reality.

The walls ooze neon glare, each drop of light seeming to mock his decline. How they laugh, those luminous fools! In his world, worries have no place, replaced by a gentle warmth, a lethargy that makes him feel like he's underwater, where everything is blurred, soft and distant.

The city, existence itself, now boils down to this needle, this bubble of heat exploding inside him. The details of the outside world are blurred and indistinct, like a badly painted impressionist picture. The sounds of the city become distant, barely audible whispers that get lost in the white noise of his foggy mind.

He loses himself in this wave that sweeps him away, reality melting into unreality, the world shrinking until it is no more than an insignificant point in the universe that his mind has become.

Suddenly, there's a ruckus. A racket that pierces his bubble, a cacophony that creaks and rumbles. He looks up, pupils dilated with venom. At the end of the alley, shadows bicker, dancing a macabre dance. He stares at them, transfixed by the morbid ballet.

There's a reflection, a flash of silver that tears the night. A knife, the devil's tool, arcing through the air. He wonders if it's a hallucination, a ghost conjured up by the heroine, or if death really is dancing before his eyes.

Then there's this sound. A hoarse growl, a muffled scream, an inhuman gurgle. A lament of death singing its victory. The shadow falls, like a disjointed puppet. And then nothing. Silence returns, heavier, more suffocating than ever.

His heart beats wildly, but he doesn't move. He just stands there, his back against the cold wall, his eyes fixed on the morbid scene. He's witnessing a murder, or perhaps a prank played by his foggy mind. Anxiety grips him by the throat, reality crumbles around him, giving way to an obsessive doubt.

He emerges from sleep, slowly, like someone recovering from a dive too deep. Daylight stings his eyes, the sounds of the city scratch his ears. He feels heavy, numb, as if still trapped in the cocoon of heroin.

He straightens up, his back aching against the cold wall. His head is spinning, his mouth dry. He runs a hand over his face, trying to chase away the fog that surrounds him. It hurts everywhere, as if a pack of dogs had bitten every inch of his skin.

Then he sees her. There she is, a few yards from him, lying on the pavement like a macabre offering. A severed head, eyes wide open, mouth twisted in an eternal rictus of horror. He recognizes it. It's last night's shadow, the main actor in this macabre dance that still haunts his mind.

He stares at her, heart pounding, stomach in knots. Reality punches him in the face, tearing it away like a veil. He didn't dream. He hadn't hallucinated. He's witnessed a murder, a real one, and now he's here, alone with the victim.

Fear invades him, as sharp as the knife that separated that head from his body. He wants to scream, to run, but instead he just stands there, transfixed, his eyes riveted on the morbid trophy.

The truth is there, icy, inescapable. He's no longer in the heroine's gentle oblivion, he's in the real, the concrete. He's there, in an alley in Tijuana, with a severed head for company. And this truth is scarier than any nightmare the heroine could have offered him.

Her head, she stares at him. Glassy eyes that pierce his soul, a dead mouth that opens and closes. She speaks. Words come out, tunneling through the silence of the day. Accusations, reproaches, venom more potent than anything he's ever injected.

"It was you who killed me," she spits. "It's you, you..." The words are like stabs, each more painful than the last. Him, a murderer? No, he'd never... He would never...

He wants to scream, to protest, to deny. But the words stick in his throat, trapped by the horror of what he hears. It's impossible, it's insane. He's not a killer. He's a junkie, a coward, maybe, but not a killer.

The head keeps accusing him, each word a hammer blow to his skull. "It's you, you..." The voice is omnipresent, unavoidable, the truth hurled in the face of the world.

He trembles, his whole body shaking with spasms. Guilt overwhelms him, a black, viscous shame. The truth hits him full force. He's a murderer. He killed a man. He left his victim to die in a dark alley, all alone.

He closes his eyes, wants to flee, hide, disappear. But he can't escape the truth. He can't escape the head. He can't escape himself.

The weight of the accusation is unbearable. The head judges him, condemns him. And he remains there, alone with his crime, alone with his guilt, alone with the memory of last night. Reality is a ferocious beast tearing him apart, and all he can do is watch. He's a murderer, and he can never forget it.

Reality is too harsh, too cruel. The accusations, the reproaches, the face of death - it's all too much for him. He needs escape, relief, oblivion. He needs his venom, his sweet heroin.

He takes out another syringe, fills it with care. Every gesture is familiar, reassuring. He no longer sees the head, he no longer sees the alley. He sees only the needle, the heroin, the promise of oblivion.

He plunges the needle into his flesh, feels the venom seeping into his veins. A shiver runs through his body, heralding the start of his journey. Reality dissolves, replaced by a warmth that invades him from head to toe.

The head disappears, the alley disappears. There's no more murder, no more guilt. There's just him and his artificial paradise, a world of sweetness and soothing. He lets himself go, lets himself be carried away by the current. He forgets the world, forgets the murder, forgets his head.

Reality becomes a shadow, a distant memory. The accusing voice falls silent, replaced by the heroine's gentle whisper. He's no longer in the alley, no longer in Tijuana. He's somewhere else, far away, far from everything.

He loses himself in the wave, lets himself be carried away. Reality has no place here. All that counts is sensation, escape, oblivion. He's no longer a murderer, no longer a witness. He's just a man, a man who's found a way out in a syringe of heroin.

He falls asleep, his heart soothed, his mind at ease. Reality is a distant threat, a shadow he's managed to escape. For now, he's safe. For now, he's free.