Smoke, that curls like a sleeping cat through the air. The scent is sweet, a cloying scent that begins as something wonderful and ends as something foul, something rotten. It is hot there, so hot that the embers from the match glow blue instead of orange. His eyes are wide, lit by the flame, brown with dancing blue shadows and a mixture of disgust and pity. I lay back on the hard wooden bunk, uncomfortable. Of course whenever I even smell the smoke I go numb, my pupils blurring until all I know is the need that overwhelms my senses. I have sold my soul to the devil for this, but the reward is so very sweet.
It is illegal, of course, but I have to do this. I do it not only for myself, but for the others from my old country. Germany is now a distant memory, but the smoke and the ball of resin helps me to recall it. When I lie back, the pipe rubbing rawly against the sore pink softness of my mouth, I relax into the past. The smoke makes my eyes water as hands gently press me deeper and deeper into the wooden bunk. Deeper and deeper I fall into the forbidden smoke, deeper into a world of gray and green and mountains and honey hair.
Last year I tried to escape from the addiction. I suffered through shakes and pangs so violent that when the spasms grew strong, my stomach collapsed and I vomited blood. I nearly choked on it, my tongue dry and heavy in my mouth. I cannot leave the opium. I do not know why I am so weak - I know others who are fine without the opium, who can survive weeks without it.
My body and mind have bound me to the drug. My day to day sanity depends on that blessedly small black ball of resin. The others often wonder why I am so distant, why I have so little money, why I return to the Lodging House so late at night - they cannot know about my weakness. It would be the death of me.
It is a dirty thing, this secret of mine. And, try as I might to ignore the fact, it does hurt me. My gums are raw, and my teeth have become so sensitive. I have watched my body waste away, and I can do nothing about it. When eight o'clock comes, my body and mind insist on relief so forcefully that I want to pass out. I cannot handle the pressure. Each day I wake and tell myself that I will not give in. Each day, I cave. I wish I could be stronger, but I am not.
I have stopped feeling for my lovers. My desire is gone completely. Woman and men alike no longer affect me the way they used to. I view them all with hazy, uncaring eyes. It is so hard to see when the sky darkens at night. My eyesight has never been good, but now my glasses do even less for my vision.
Opium has made me stronger as well, really it has. I am usually detached from my body and am no longer aware of most pain. I have been seen wandering the streets late at night, often found crumpled in an alley the next morning by a friend of mine. I try to return home before curfew, really I do, but it is just so hard. I am lost in the opium and forget time as it passes, forget where to return to. And the fact that I can withstand more pain makes me care less for my body. The depression that has stemmed from the drug is something that I cannot free myself of. The only way to seek relief is to return to the smoke, hoping for a release from the constant misery. My heart is numbed and yet I want so badly to feel again.
I have run out of money, you know. But opium will provide a solution.
As we stand in line at the Distribution Center, I find myself pressed against my best friend's side.
"Specs," I grin painfully in greeting, my arms held tightly to my body so that he cannot see how much I am sweating. My face is shining, I am sure, but my long hair, glasses and dark clothing will keep him from noticing.
Or so I think. "Dutchy, are you okay?" He asks, his brown eyes warm and frightened behind those round glasses of his. I smile reassuringly.
"D'you remember your mom, Specs?" I ask softly. His face falls slightly, and he glances self-consciously around.
"Yeah," He replies gruffly, his eyebrows drawn together. "Why?"
"Would you like t' meet her again?"
"What?" He stares at me dumbly.
"Come wit' me, Specs. Meet me at seven in Chinatown, right before the restaurant wit' the tigers painted on the windows. Y'know the one?"
"'Course I do," Specs swallows, hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. I smile reassuringly at him, trying to rid him of his bewildered expression. My jaw aches from all this false merriment.
"Meet me, please, Specs. Promise you will?" Unconsciously my gaze becomes pleading, as though I am begging for my life.
"I promise," He rolls his eyes slightly, turning away. I thank him softly and move on to buy a set of papers.
Another victim has been captured in the net of wonder, in the net of false promises and sweet lies. I convince myself I am doing Specs a favor. Opium can help to recall things; forbidden, lovely, wonderful memories. I wait by the restaurant, feeling dirty. The faces of the children who watch me are suspicious, their cold black eyes burning with hatred. Their faces are drawn and pinched so that each one looks like a wrinkled old man.
"Dutchy!" Specs hails me, glancing around with poorly veiled curiosity. He still does not understand why we are here.
"Follow me," I instruct softly, my heart beating more quickly so that my breath is short and excited. I wipe at my running nose with my sleeve, swallowing loudly as we near the door.
The whole street stinks, a foul scent of urine and rotten garbage. I ignore the expression on my friend's face as I shoulder open a door beneath a richly painted mauve sign that reads, "Madame Lang's Inn."
Inside the room is dark, with thick, heavily embroidered curtains blocking out all sunlight, or moonlight as is the case now. As soon as that horribly sweet smell reaches me, a dumb smile crosses my face.
Specs watches in fear as I am taken away, pressed down into a bunk and given a pipe. He is reluctant to follow, but another woman places her hands in the small of his back and propels him to another bunk.
An ancient Chinese man lights my pipe because my hands are trembling too much to do so properly. I fear I will drop the pipe, but the man supports it for me. He says something in Chinese, his dark eyes hard and unforgiving.
"I'm sorry, Specs," I whisper around the pipe, my voice as thin as the smoke released from it. Tears form in my eyes, making the smoke seem bright and surreal. What have I done?
But then the opium takes over my body, and I am no longer sorry. I am somewhere wonderful, lost in a land of rolling green fields and bright flags and laughing siblings. There is no ship, no New York, just my family and beautiful Germany and the sweet, cloying scent...I have no more inhibitions, no more cares...I am free, free, free!
I will be sorry for this in an hour, but for now my mind is heavy and overtaken with brilliant thoughts. I do not see Specs twitching, his body reacting badly to the opium. All I know is this fantastic release. My senses are heightened as I relive the past. Yes, I have sold my soul to this drug, but there is nothing else that can make me feel this way.