Herion is like wading into the sea. The first fizz of water at your ankles is delicious, shocking. You’re aware of every cold pulse of water against your skin. You wade further, your temperature accommodates; you walk more slowly. The water is still shallow, though the bottom slopes. You’re delighted as you relax into the sway, the buckle of the waves. You grin with pleasure, and you think, Why didn’t I come in sooner? How gorgeous, how thrilling! The abruptly the sand drops beneath your next step, and you plunge into deeper water, and you can’t feel the bottom anymore.
Everything seemed dark all the time. Alan talked to me, and listened. ‘You’re like a flower in a hurricane,’ he said. He glanced across at me as we drove. 'You don’t belong here. Darling, you shouldn’t be here.’ I nearly wept for his kindness, but I couldn’t allow that. If I started, I might never stop.
I knew this sensation: being judged too innocent, too immature, to remain part of the group , just when I’d found one. Playing horses by myself as a child. Being left behind when my high school friends went out. I was so apalled to find this feeling yet again. And I felt contempt too: I had dallied in the ragged life of the pot-smoking student, but I was still at heart a sensible prude, and I thought they were completely out of their minds to be doing heroin