God's Breath [4]

Timothy Fender stood over Lori watching her hands dance above her stilled figure. Her mouth was open as if screaming. Fender removed his ear-buds, assuring himself that her screams were only in the land of God’s Breath and not something overheard by anyone nearby.
Timothy lowered his too skinny frame, tucking into a crisscross-apple-sauce on the concrete floor. A bony knee only inches away from Lori’s hip. Something was awry. Different. Her journeys on the waves of God’s Breath had never been interrupted by a scream. Not even a silent scream.
Lori never remembered her trips except to describe them as waterfall serenity.

“I was standing behind a waterfall. The sound is muted. All you see is cascading water. Water so blue you know only God’s hand could have painted it. Once, I reached out and touched the blue wall of water. I knew I shouldn’t. I wasn’t afraid, there is never fear there. Have you ever seen something so beautiful you knew if you moved, closed your eyes, or touched it, the beauty would die? Yeah, but I wanted to touch it. More than anything I have ever wanted, I wanted to touch it. I needed to touch it. Part of me knew if I didn’t, if I let the wall live, it would deliver like it always does. Timothy, it changes. The wall always changes. It gives me things that no one can know. Beautiful things. God things. But it always takes them back. The blue water washes away any memory of what it has revealed. That’s why I wanted to touch it. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. I wanted to remember all the things she shared with me. If I touched her, maybe she would trust me. Maybe it would let me remember. Then I could bring it all back with me, Timothy. Then maybe, I wouldn’t need to go again.”

Timothy stretched his fingers, tracing her cheek. She was so beautiful. He could touch her and she wouldn’t die. He could touch more of her. She would be gone for at least five more hours. He always recorded the times. When she inhaled. When she came back. He could do anything he wanted. But he wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I reached out, stretching my fingers, touching the wall. It was cold. Ice cold. At first nothing happened. Then the cold moved through my fingertips and up my arm. If the cold traveled to my heart, I knew I would die. I wasn’t supposed to touch her. And then the water wall shattered. The blue wall, the beautifully silent waterfall exploded. Looking up, I saw the blue soaring into the black sky. The night sky inhaled, taking in the blue minim, filling cosmic lungs that no one knows exists. The black sky opened his eyes, ten thousand stars—twinkle, twinkle little star—the blue was back, falling from the sky. Ten thousand tear drops. I made the wall cry.”
“I turned my palms up to the sky, hoping to capture the drops. They danced away as if avoiding my touch. That made me sad I and I cried. I looked at the dirt below my feet. The drops crashed onto the hard ground but their shape didn’t change. As each drop fell, music sounded, a child’s toy piano, as if in concert with their descent. I knelt, wanting to hold them. To love them. I saw inside the blue tear drops, a face. A baby. The baby was laughing and reaching up. And suddenly the drops were floating, like the world had flipped and it was raining up. The tear drops ran together, restoring the waterfall. And then I was walking into it. Becoming part of it. It was so wonderful. God’s Breath, Timothy, is so beautiful.”

Lori believed the drug created the images, the waterfall, the stars, the tear drops, the baby. She wouldn’t understand, or accept as true, what Timothy Fender knew to be the creative authority. God’s Breath, while extremely powerful, was not a hallucinogenic. The design, by the young Mr. Fender, is to tap the unconscious. To reach in deeper and with greater purity than the conscious mind is capable. God’s Breath mined the mine for memories long ago abandoned by life. Memories would surface without definition or tags of origin. The offender of the drug (for that’s what they were from the beginning) would only experience euphoric chaos. And as testified to by Lori’s awe, almost worship-like admiration, they believed God’s Breath was a Creator. Fender knew otherwise. The drug acted more like a pissed of administrator, flinging old file folders across a room, allowing the forgotten contents to settle and mingle as fate provided. God’s Breath was a wimp compared to the powerful human mind. An unanticipated bonus, or side-effect of the poison was the prolonged near-comatose state of the abuser for long hours. Fender, genius and drug designer, did not understand, nor did he concern himself, how the protracted advantage performed. In the end, her endless journey was his addiction.

God's Breath [3]

“Do you think it’s a sin to call it God’s Breath?” He asked her.

“I don’t think so.” She laughed. “But I will tell you when I get to hell.”

Lori closed her eyes.

                                                                                                                                          

She waited. That was okay, the wait was worth it. And Lori knew it wouldn’t be long. It wasn’t like the first time she had inhaled God’s Breath. Then, the drug had slammed her within seconds of having entered her lungs, expanding the small air sacs, moving along the highway of capillaries to the pulmonary vein. From there, the drug-rich oxygen moved through the heart—to the brain. Seconds, no, micros-seconds was all it required the first time. Now, each time it takes longer. She didn’t complain, the trade-off meant longer trips, higher highs. Lori hoped the day would come when God’s Breath would take her away and never return her. An everlasting high.

God’s Breath arrived. Everlasting. One of her father’s words. Everlasting life. He that believes… How many times had she heard those words? She was soaring above the stars. So many lights. So, bright. She tried to close her eyes. But she couldn’t. He was in control now. She was falling. Stretching her arms out like the Christ on his cross.

She's standing on glass. Beneath the glass, came the familiar sound of her father’s voice.

“Lori, it’s your turn, baby.”

She looked down through the glass. Where was he? The glass began to pop. Pop, pop, pop. Black and silver squares formed with each popping sound. It was a chess board. Her father’s chess board.

“Lori!”

The black horse (Lori, it’s a knight, her Daddy scolded her) stood beside her. His breath was warm. Coming rapidly. She looked into the black horse’s eyes… Black horse.

“It’s worse than black horse.” Timothy said. Someone she couldn’t see asked, “What’s black horse?” “Heroin.” Timothy answered the voice. Who was he talking to?

The eyes rolled back into the great horse’s head. They looked like two white balloons. Balloons over-inflated by an over-zealous little girl. The balloon’s skin was too thin. Lori waited for them to explode. She knew they would, they always do. The little girl would cry. “It’s just a balloon. Don’t be such a big baby.” The eyes exploded.

The sky was filled with colorful confetti; floating down, landing in her hair. Thousands of colors. Some had no name. They were so beautiful. She twirled around like a ballerina, staring into the sky, feeling the confetti dance on her cheeks. The only thing missing was the music. Just like that Bohemian Rhapsody blared from unseen celestial speakers—Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? –God’s Breath! Just think of something and it comes. Easy come, easy go. At her feet, the black horse lay dead. Bottomless black holes where the eyes had been. Black holes in a black horse. Little high, little low

The confetti continued to fall. No, it’s not confetti. It just colors. Colors falling from the black sky. Lori ran her hands through her hair, feeling the confetti…the colors. She looked at her hands. Through her hands. They were transparent. The skin was too thin. She saw the colors through her hands. No. In her hands. The colors were in her hands. Filling them. Over-inflating her hands. The skin is too thin!

Her hands exploded. More color. Red. Scarlet. “though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.” Her father was preaching from beneath the glass floor. His words frightened her. She’s too young to hear about sins. Too little to understand the blood that cleanses. He shouldn’t say those words to little kids. She didn’t want to hear him. She put her hands over her ears…where did her hands go?

Lori screamed.

God's Breath [2]

He sat up in the bed, seizing the bible from the bed stand. He turned the pages until he found the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel. He read the words for the hundredth time that day— “I believe; help my unbelief.”
He closed his eyes and prayed.

                                                                                       
                                                                                                   

Lori was the first one to call it God’s Breath. The stimulant had a half of dozen street names but was most often called TF12; TF stood for Timothy Fender, the 12 was the number of hours that the user would be high…more than high. TF12 is a synthetic opioid created by an eighteen-year-old genius, Timothy Fender, in his father’s garage. He knows more about pharmaceuticals and chemistry than Stephen Hawking knows about quantum physics. What a fucking waste of genius.

Fender had met Lori at a mutual friend’s 4/20 party. She had asked him if he wanted to drag some weed. That was all it took. Not the weed, he didn’t get high. Protecting his genius-level brain cells was invariably the priority. It was that she had asked him. He was a nerd, and he knew it. He didn’t try to disguise it either. Two inches beyond six feet, weighing in at one hundred and three pounds, he wasn’t an attractive physical specimen. His long black hair was always greasy and seldom combed. Pimples had not learned the news of his eighteenth birthday, and new ones popped up frequently as if he was still a budding pubescent. His wardrobe comprised of black tee-shirts and black jeans, a 1990’s goth holdover.

Twenty-five people had been at the party, twenty-six counting Timothy Fender. Twenty-four didn’t seem to know Fender existed. A covered-in-black wallflower. When Lori made her offer to share a joint, his synapse fired releasing something described as, in non-technical terms, a crush. The crush was so immediate and powerful that he had almost accepted her invitation to blaze. But a fear of lost control was even greater than the unexpected crush leading to his polite “No, thanks´. But she didn’t seem to care, nor did she criticize him for declining. And later, when he spoke about the mechanics of marijuana, cause and effect of the euphoric trip, she had listened. He knew he sounded like a nerd. A nerd who was utterly out of place at a 4/20 party. But she didn’t care. And so, he talked…and talked.

Seven months later he had developed the formulation for TF12. From some unknown, deep, sick region of his Einsteinium mind, he wanted Lori to try if first. She did.

Three weeks afterward, she was addicted to TF12. “Timothy Fender, you will be a friggin millionaire!” Lori told him, sitting on one of the wood cable reels that purported to be furniture in the garage/laboratory of the same Timothy Fender. Her prediction wasn’t wholly accurate, but over the next three months he had manufactured and sold enough TF12 to put almost eighty-thousand dollars in and old suitcase. He was happy. Lori was high. And TF12 was winning the attention of the police. And the coroner’s office.

On the anniversary of their first meeting, April 20, Lori instructed Timothy that TF12 was too scientific sounding. “It needs a new name.” She told him with her eyes closed and on her way to carelessness. “God’s Breath. That’s its name. God’s Breath-it will blow your mind and suck your worries away.” Timothy wondered what “worries” Lori had.

“Do you think it’s a sin to call it God’s Breath?” He asked her.
“I don’t think so.” She laughed. “But I will tell you when I get to hell.”
Lori closed her eyes.

Going Numb by J Hirtle

God's Breath

Below is the beginning of a new story I have been bouncing around on sleepless nights. It is a story about addiction, faith and God. Three of my favorite subjects. I have written about these before in two non-fiction books, "Going Numb" and "Addicted to Faith". But I've wanted to enter into my new favorite theater, fiction, and create a story with my favorite subjects, for some time now. 
I hope this story, as it come to life, will help some one who is facing addictions through self or for someone they love. It is a daunting task, one I hope to accomplish before I go Home.
I thought that I would reveal it here-letting you see it as it grows. I covet your feedback and critiques, hopefully mixed with a little prayer.

Thomas placed the old parchment bound bible on the nightstand. He knew sleep wouldn’t come tonight; there was so much to consider. No, consider wasn’t the right word. Believe. So much to believe. He turned the small plastic knob on the bronzed lamp one click, dimming the bulb but not yet extinguishing it. There are four walls separating his room from his daughter’s, but they weren’t adequate to drown out the thick bass coming from Bose speakers he knew were sitting on her desk. He recognized the song,” Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd.
He closed his eyes remembering the first time he heard Floyd ask, “Is there anybody there?”. It was 1979, he was in the garage of his closest friend, Larry Kirk. His parents allowed The Kirk (as he was known by friends and enemies alike) to convert the garage into a studio. Long black lights had hung from the ceiling illuminating posters of Hendrix, Clapton, and of course Pink Floyd. A Yamaha custom drum set commanded the center of the garage; a gift from The Kirk’s parents for his sixteenth birthday. A half of dozen folding chairs, the kind you would see at pool side (which is likely where The Kirk had stolen them from) were the only other furniture in the studio. Music always pervaded the atmosphere. The air always reeked of weed. They had smoked a lot of weed. They were kids. Kids growing up post-Viet Nam, post-campus protests and at the end of an era that included the greatest rock-and-roll bands of all time. Nothing else to do, so they claimed—weed.
Thomas opened his eyes. The song had changed. He didn’t recognize this one. It was new and belonged to her generation. In 1981, Thomas enlisted in the Marine Corps, putting, for the most part, his weed smoking days behind him. He smoked a few times over the years, at concerts, once at a high school reunion, but it wasn’t part of his life. Even as teenager in the 70s he hadn’t been as enchanted with getting stoned as most of his friends were. He tried nothing harder. He recalled seeing a kid named Eddie get hit by a truck after wandering out onto the highway; he had just dropped purple microdot. In 1993, he became a Daddy. Since, Thomas had not gotten high, drunk or anything else. He didn’t have a problem with people getting high, doing their own thing. It was their business. Legal or illegal, it was their choice, their consequence. Unless it came to his daughter.
She called it God’s Breath. It will take you higher. You will be there longer. It will blow every fantastical cell in your mind. When she spoke about it she chattered like a late-night infomercial hawk, not an addict. “It will suck your breath away!” She left out the piece about killing you.
She was an addict. His daughter was addicted and he could do nothing about it. Except, blame himself.
He’d introduced her to Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, ACDC, Eric Clapton. He even had an old turntable with all the vinyl an ex-rocker needed. He told her stories about The Kirk and his garage-studio. About the weed they smoked and the fun they had. He did this because of insatiable love for music and hoped stories of his misspent youth would be received as a warning. Not a role model.
He sat up in the bed, seizing the bible from the bed stand. He turned the pages until he found the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel. He read the words for the hundredth time that day— “I believe; help my unbelief.”
He closed his eyes and prayed.