Dark Streets

I zig zagged through the pitch-black silence of Barcelona’s narrow streets. This part of the city was the opposite of inviting and a galaxy away from the tourist friendly areas nearby. My nose dripped a bitter lemon mucus that threatened to disintegrate my septum and my heart beat furiously.

“Fuck!”

I’d tripped over a stinking rubbish bag, my brand-new Nike Air-Max trainers now covered in shit. A huge rat came scuttling out of the shadows and into the unknown.

I was being led deep into a notorious area called the Ravel by a prostitute called Patty. My Iranian opium dealer Ali had warned me not to go into this barrio, but that evening my sanity had been discarded at the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.

Patty had several front teeth missing and her extravagant clothes had seen better days. Patty’s appearance was of no concern; my mind was consumed by the promise of smack. The uncontrollable urge had yet again taken me hostage, leaving me powerless against any wishful thinking. At that moment I would’ve walked to hell and back to satisfy my selfish desire.
A few hours earlier I’d joined ninety thousand other obsessives at the Nou Camp football stadium to cheer on Barcelona’s ‘Galacticos’. Barca had played with a symphony of color and movement, each touch was the very epitome of creativity, beauty, aggression and grace.

As I pondered over Barca’s master craftsmen, Patty led me further into my future. The faint lights of normality faded, leaving nothing but my own desperate breath. The further we disappeared into the Ravel the more lost we became. An occasional street lamp illuminated graffiti laden walls and abandoned shops with boarded up windows. The crunch of shoes upon broken glass and packs of dogs howling into the night cut through the silence. I was in a junkie’s garden of Eden with pitch black judgement, compromised by seduction.

Awaiting Patty’s prize was a gang of Moroccan’s, hiding in the silence. They leapt out of the shadows before surrounding me like a pack of hyenas about to devour their pray. I froze, before being overpowered and thrown to the floor. The concrete ground felt cold upon my naked cheek. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself somewhere else.

“Dinero, dinero!”

The knee being pushed into my chest bothered me more than the shiny silver blade being held against my throat. A fist full of fingers spread out like a five-legged spider lying dormant upon my left shoulder. The assailant’s face was so close to mine that I could smell his rancid breath, I noticed a small scar on his chin. As he clenched his dirty teeth a drop of saliva hit me on the forehead. I stared at him expressionless. He was one ugly mother fucker, like a Moroccan Fred West.

“Donde está tu jodido dinero?”

His friends attacked my pockets with such savagery that my jeans and underpants were forced down to my ankles. From the waist down, I was naked and exposed.

Even though I was naked from the waist down with a sharp blade to my throat and surrounded by violent men, I only had one thought going through my head.  I didn’t care that I could’ve been cut, raped or even killed. I didn’t care about purposely losing my friends in the football stadium. The only thing I was really pissed off about was knowing that I wouldn’t be getting my drugs.

Perhaps the guy should have cut me. It would’ve been a permanent reminder of my insanity whilst in active addiction. Continuing to put myself back into the torture garden where flowers never grow. Hurting myself once more to see if I could still feel. Searching under rocks for love lost then dis-guarding it if found.

Afterwards I felt like a pathetic, worn out, old man. A setting sun who’d one day become extinguished. A coin that had passed through a million insane stories and played a part in each one.