Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Do disclaimers exist solely to crush our
dreams that we actually own these universes we play with? Oh. Right. Fair
enough then.
Authors note: Please, if anyone reading this is offended or unsure about
the subject matter, I'm sorry. It's a writing experiment which I'm in two
minds over posting.
I dread to think what would be the reaction if I told anyone. Mass horror, I expect. Stuttering that they thought that "our kind", addicts, please be specific, had been dealt with. Eradicated, so to speak. Almost, not totally. I managed to survive by keeping under the radar, by being crafty. Evading discovery like a constant pursuer, faking test results which is a feat as difficult as any information recovery operation. Lately, however, I think my masquerade is slackening at the seams. I grow ever more paranoid, short tempered and fidgety. The longer I go without indulging, without being my true self, the worse I become. The crew believe me to be extraordinarily odd in my ways, or so I suspect. I don't doubt that the officers believe this also, but are more adept at hiding it.
The caricature is one I settled into with ease with only the rare inconsistencies. Sometimes it hurts. Not the withdrawal, the pretence. Only to be expected, really, even though I've been at this caper for some years now. I had no other choice available to me as our section of society was shunned. We were mindless, thoughtless, utterly foolish, as we apparently could not see the danger done to ourselves by ourselves. Not quite right. We, well, I see it exactly for what it is. I know that it's antisocial and selfish. I know that it will kill me. I know. But I can't give up. I can't walk away from it as I've managed to prove in the last few years even though I haven't given in to the demands it makes. Here, I tread a fine line. I cannot let myself back into it, no matter how desperate I may be.
God knows, I have been desperate.
I am still utterly in thrall to my demon and I cannot run from it for it is my shadow. Part of me. Day to day, that's how I live. I function. No one knows which makes it immensely easier, though Phlox has always wanted to investigate more thoroughly the signs of it he discovered on one of my umpteen sickbay stays. I always shake him off, even if it's becoming harder to do so of late. My aversion to sickbay is notorious enough even without the truth.
It's hard to reconcile both versions of myself. I sometimes don't even remember hours at a time as the longing gets too much and the façade takes over. Could it be possible for the public me to take over and let the addiction die with the real me? It's an enticing thought, one I play with in my mind as the night creeps in.
I wish the real Malcolm Reed would leave me in peace.
I dread to think what would be the reaction if I told anyone. Mass horror, I expect. Stuttering that they thought that "our kind", addicts, please be specific, had been dealt with. Eradicated, so to speak. Almost, not totally. I managed to survive by keeping under the radar, by being crafty. Evading discovery like a constant pursuer, faking test results which is a feat as difficult as any information recovery operation. Lately, however, I think my masquerade is slackening at the seams. I grow ever more paranoid, short tempered and fidgety. The longer I go without indulging, without being my true self, the worse I become. The crew believe me to be extraordinarily odd in my ways, or so I suspect. I don't doubt that the officers believe this also, but are more adept at hiding it.
The caricature is one I settled into with ease with only the rare inconsistencies. Sometimes it hurts. Not the withdrawal, the pretence. Only to be expected, really, even though I've been at this caper for some years now. I had no other choice available to me as our section of society was shunned. We were mindless, thoughtless, utterly foolish, as we apparently could not see the danger done to ourselves by ourselves. Not quite right. We, well, I see it exactly for what it is. I know that it's antisocial and selfish. I know that it will kill me. I know. But I can't give up. I can't walk away from it as I've managed to prove in the last few years even though I haven't given in to the demands it makes. Here, I tread a fine line. I cannot let myself back into it, no matter how desperate I may be.
God knows, I have been desperate.
I am still utterly in thrall to my demon and I cannot run from it for it is my shadow. Part of me. Day to day, that's how I live. I function. No one knows which makes it immensely easier, though Phlox has always wanted to investigate more thoroughly the signs of it he discovered on one of my umpteen sickbay stays. I always shake him off, even if it's becoming harder to do so of late. My aversion to sickbay is notorious enough even without the truth.
It's hard to reconcile both versions of myself. I sometimes don't even remember hours at a time as the longing gets too much and the façade takes over. Could it be possible for the public me to take over and let the addiction die with the real me? It's an enticing thought, one I play with in my mind as the night creeps in.
I wish the real Malcolm Reed would leave me in peace.