A Smile in the Dark

8.15 AM.

Mask ingredients

White Russian.

Shot of cheap whiskey.

10 GV hand rolled cigarettes.

An organised line of cocaine.

10 valium.

Maintenance

- a random handful of narcotics, shoved into my shirt pocket.

Awakening is the hardest part of the day. The first few seconds of loneliness that seem to last an age, the sound of smashing glass and a feeling of complete futility, slowly coming to terms with the fact that now I'm no longer safe from the perils of reality: humans, sounds, cars, ego, anxiety, but most of all: memories, memories that slowly start to surface as if they were tiny little creatures in my mind hiding behind membranes and tissue eager to release themselves on me like a guillotine. I am a stranger in a strange land. The madness is something that never shrivels or relents, but grows closer.

I dare not waste time, I am awake now, and there is no returning to the land of beyond, well at least not for another dozen hours or so. Every cell in my body is in chaos, like Oxford Street on Black Friday. There is no discipline, complete anarchy. I need to relax, I need to remember The Routine. A shot of cheap dirty whiskey; I can afford better, but the vile taste reminds me that I shouldn't expect anything from today. On the side of my bed lies a perfect line of cocaine, 10 pre-rolled cigarettes, and ten Diazepam. Snort. Light. Eat. I lay back in bed and think of nothing, while the cocaine hits me and the tobacco fills my lungs, the blue oozes into my soul and I begin to feel that my life is not so bad. I read a chapter of whatever book is currently on the go, in today's case The Complete Anthology of Byron, Keats and Shelley.

The mask begins to form. I feel confident, I feel stupid at my nihilistic and depressing waking thoughts. I wonder if I am a suddenly different, new, reprogrammed. I am out of bed immediately and beginning to make a White Russian. I can't eat most days, especially not before noon, so a White Russian cocktail- to me- suffices a breakfast meal; coffee liquor, vodka, full fat cream, chocolate sprinkles, on the rocks- in a pint glass. The cocaine has begun to peak. I light another cigarette. I am completely naked, but a new life has started to take form, the first supernova has taken place. The mask is on. I choose a record that most suits how I feel, for you see, each morning is very unique, the routine may be the same, but dreams can manipulate your perception, as can order, as can time, as can memories. Today I chose Hunky Dory by Bowie, loud enough to be heard from the shower. I have no gas. I need no gas. I have a five minute cold shower, or at least until I'm blue, that's the wonder of cold showers, the first instant is truly painful, a deep and piercing cold, as if the door of winter has opened. You are now alive. The freezing cold temperature of the shower allows rational thinking, so I can think and imagine how my day will go, but never hope; for hope is the opiate of the emotions. I dry myself thoroughly and get dressed immediately. In black. Always in black. Soon after, my waking, sober self fully retreats to the darkest corner of my mind, like a feral creature hiding from sunlight inside a cave.

The time is 9 AM. I have one hour before neo-slavery. I'm a working-class bartender with a knack for creating egos. I have become someone willing to listen to others people's problems, to pretend so much that I forget that I'm pretending. I am interested in people's lives. I am happy to make a deaf Frappuccino with soy milk sprinkled with marshmallows, especially when I get a complaint that it is too hot or too cold. I am happy to listen to baby cry and children shout. I am overjoyed to be subtly ridiculed by a pretentious business man. My favourite phrase to listen to is 'are you really happy being a bartender?' to which I reply (truthfully), 'of course' while I can hear a scream dying from deep inside my soul. A crack starts to form in the foundation of the mask.

When the pub is empty, a man in black will always walk in with a dying smile on his face, and fading spark in his eye. I pour the man a glass of neat vodka and drop some oral morphine in. The man does not pay for the vodka but just stares at the invisible liquid until it slowly turns red. I take off my mask and so does he. I know his real face and he knows mine. I feel comfortable for a while, we sit in silence and enjoy nothing. I can hear customers walking down the path toward the pub. The man gets up to leave, we share a mutual nod and unsure smile, and just before we put our crumbling masks back on, we sigh and neck the glass of blood.

I stare from behind the fixed mask as some absolutely lovely people, walk inside. I smile and immediately have a conversation about things I absolutely care about, e.g something I completely made up. I laugh at their jokes because I really do find them funny. I make jokes because I want them to laugh. I do this 12 hours a day 6 days a week. On the 7th I sleep and dream of my own world, and spend the day there, completely sober and smiling with a naked face.

But I know I cannot do this forever, and the dormant face under the mask will begin to bubble, and one day I am going wake up and have the courage to take my finger out of the dam and blow the whole thing up, instead. Though, I am not quite sure if I am wearing the mask or the mask is wearing me.