Shalllow

This is a new beginning to a story, a work in progress.  Check back and you will be able to see the story develop.  Enjoy!
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The silence was deafening.  As she sat in the living room, soft lighting glistening on her greasy, unshowered face, the record player's needle broke the quiet, scratching the beginning of tonight’s sorrowful symphony. The tears in her eyes broke their own silence, streaking down the slippery slope of her supple cheekbones.  She reads the note, over and over again.  What more could she have done?  Is there something that could have relinquished his pain? She reads in his tone, in her mind, as the tears progressively flow stronger:

“The shallow man, with the empty smile
If I didn’t know me, I would ignore me too
Hands down tight
Face stretched thin
Brisk pace to the places he’s always been
Backstab the thoughts he once knew
The past is gone,
The faceless future could be strong
A ghost among the living
Perception of a breathing being
The knife, a cold and emboldened blade
The gun, a cowardice run
The pill, death's slow embrace
The noose snapped or suffocated place
The fall from great heights, smashing of bones
The electric, hopefully quick, but burning internally
The jump in front of speeding vehicles, quick and snapped out
Rampant thoughts without action
Prolonged immersion in this perceived concoction
I am the shallow man
I am the faceless ghost, haunting
I am the cypher in the snow
The end is nearing
Catastrophe, within arms reach
Leaving, letting go, seeing it all fading away”

There was never an indication of suffering. He never spoke of his pain.  What’s behind a smile can be numerous fractures and splinters determining the true face of the masked man.

The adage that a magician's greatest illusion is sleight of hand, a masterful manipulation of attention, is a truism that resonates throughout the realms of magic and deception. Joey, however, seemed to embody this principle in a far more introspective and self-destructive manner. His performance wasn't for a captivated audience but a desperate bid for oblivion, a fleeting escape from the gnawing clutches of addiction. "Watch me make this teenth disappear," he'd slur, his words a tangled web of desperation and bravado. It was a grim spectacle, a twisted magic trick with the highest of stakes.

Joey wasn't your stereotypical junkie, his descent into the abyss more insidious, cloaked in a facade of normalcy. He teetered on the precarious edge of functionality, his life a series of tightly orchestrated performances designed to conceal the depths of his addiction. The term "teenth," a unit of measurement in the illicit drug trade, was foreign to me until I found myself entangled in Joey's world, drawn into the shadowy underbelly of his existence.

His apartment, a stark contrast to the vibrant city that pulsed beyond its walls, was a testament to the corrosive nature of addiction. The acrid stench of stale urine, a pungent reminder of his struggles, permeated the air, clinging to every surface like an unwelcome guest. The living space, where we often found ourselves huddled together, was a desolate tableau of neglect. A worn throw rug, stained and threadbare, lay sprawled across the floor, its once vibrant colors muted by time and abuse. A coffee table, scarred with the remnants of countless forgotten nights, stood as a silent witness to the unraveling of Joey's life. A battered couch and a sagging recliner, their upholstery ripped and faded, offered little comfort or solace. And in the corner, a relic of a bygone era, a dusty tube TV flickered with a ghostly glow, its 20-inch screen a portal into a world of distraction and escapism.

It was within this bleak sanctuary that I bore witness to Joey's desperate attempts to conjure his own twisted reality. He was a master of misdirection, a skilled manipulator of his own perception. His sleight of hand, however, wasn't confined to playing cards or pulling rabbits out of hats. It was a far more sinister act, a desperate bid to vanish the harsh realities of his addiction.

"Watch me make this teenth disappear," he'd repeat, his voice a hollow echo in the dimly lit room. It was a mantra of self-destruction, a desperate plea for release. The ritual was always the same. He'd carefully unwrap the small package, his hands trembling with anticipation. His eyes, bloodshot and glazed, would fixate on the tiny crystals, their allure irresistible. With a practiced motion, he'd load the pipe, his movements precise and deliberate. A flick of the lighter, a hiss of flame, and the room would fill with the acrid smoke.

Joey would inhale deeply, his body convulsing with the rush of euphoria. His face, etched with the lines of a life lived on the edge, would momentarily soften, a flicker of contentment replacing the haunted expression that had become his constant companion. But the respite was fleeting, the illusion shattered as quickly as it had been conjured. The high would fade, leaving him hollow and empty, his desperation amplified tenfold.

"Watch me make this teenth disappear," he'd whisper again, his voice barely audible. It was a cycle of self-destruction, a never-ending pursuit of oblivion. He was trapped in a labyrinth of his own making, his every move a desperate attempt to escape the Minotaur of addiction.

I watched helplessly as Joey spiraled deeper into the abyss, his life unraveling before my eyes. He was a ghost haunting his own existence, a shadow of the person he once was. His laughter, once infectious and full of life, was now a hollow mockery, a desperate attempt to mask the pain that consumed him. His dreams, once vibrant and ambitious, were now distant memories, replaced by the relentless pursuit of his next fix.

I often wondered what had led Joey down this path, what demons he was battling that drove him to such desperate measures. Was it a broken heart, a shattered dream, a traumatic experience that had left him scarred and vulnerable? Or was it simply the allure of the drug itself, its seductive power too strong to resist?

Whatever the cause, the result was the same. Joey was a prisoner of his addiction, his life a series of desperate attempts to escape the chains that bound him. He was a magician performing his greatest illusion, a tragic figure trapped in a cycle of self-destruction.

As I sat in that desolate apartment, watching Joey disappear into his haze, I couldn't help but feel a sense of profound sadness. He was a lost soul, adrift in a sea of despair, his cries for help muffled by the deafening silence of his own self-deception. I wanted to reach out to him, to offer him a lifeline, but I knew that the only person who could save Joey was Joey himself.

As the smoke cleared, I was left with the haunting image of a man who had vanished into the void, his illusion complete.

A question gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. Why were we even friends? What twisted bond had tethered me to this sinking ship, this desolate island of despair? A wave of self-doubt washed over me, its icy tendrils threatening to pull me under.

And then, like a beacon cutting through the fog, a memory surfaced. It was a summer day, years ago, when the world was still young and full of promise. Joey and I were teenagers, carefree and invincible, our laughter echoing through the sun-drenched streets. We were inseparable, two halves of a whole, our friendship a fortress against the encroaching darkness of adulthood.

We'd spend hours exploring the hidden corners of the city, our imaginations running wild. We'd climb abandoned buildings, their crumbling walls a testament to forgotten dreams. We'd race through overgrown fields, the tall grass whispering secrets in the summer breeze. We'd talk for hours, our conversations spanning the vast expanse of human experience, from the mundane to the profound.

Joey was different back then, his spirit unburdened by the weight of addiction. He was vibrant and full of life, his eyes sparkling with an infectious enthusiasm. He was a dreamer, his mind teeming with ideas and possibilities. He was a friend, his loyalty unwavering and true.

It was that Joey, the one I remembered, the one who still flickered beneath the layers of despair, that I clung to. It was the hope that he could reclaim that lost spark, that he could break free from the chains that bound him. It was the belief that friendship, even in its most battered and bruised form, could be a force for good.

And so, I stayed. I stayed because I couldn't abandon him, not when he needed me most. I stayed because I believed that somewhere, deep within the wreckage of his life, there was still a glimmer of hope. I stayed because friendship, even in its most challenging form, is a precious gift, one that should never be taken for granted.