u/Ch0rim

My leg had been hurting for three days. There was an infection there, one I’d been ignoring for months. I kept searching my body for new spots. My arms had swollen up, I’d already blown out every vein in the upper half of my body.

A few months ago I met a girl. I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. I don’t even remember her name, but she was beautiful — someone who hadn’t been on the street long enough for her body to start falling apart yet. We fucked and did heroin together.

“Here, I made you a shot too.”

“I don’t share needles, thanks.”

“What, you think I’m gonna give you diseases?”

“…Fine, give it here.”

“You’re easy to convince.”

“Yeah.”

She died. I stayed alive.

A week later the pain started. I tried to avoid looking at the area. I wore a thick sock to keep pressure on it. The last time I took the sock off was because I had no choice anymore — they smelled rotten. The fabric had turned yellow from all the pus leaking out of the wound. Every step I took made a wet squishing sound from inside my foot, and three new black holes had appeared around the one I used to inject into.

I stopped doing heroin. It made me too heavy. I switched to amphetamines instead. They gave me motivation to collect money.

I dragged myself from the Ayalon bridge — where I slept — toward the intersection. I wondered if maybe nobody would be there yet. Maybe I could collect enough money before it got too hot.

A cold sweat started running through me. My heartbeat sped up and everything became blurry.

I heard murmuring to my right, but nobody was there.

My muscles were shaking. It was hard to stand.

“Wait… can somebody help me?”

Someone handed me a coin.

“You’ve got a ba—”

I was standing in the middle of the road.

A car passed on my right. I tried limping toward the sidewalk, but my limp was slowing traffic down.

“Get out of the road, you filthy junkie!”

How did I even get to the intersection?

No matter where I walked, there was a smell of carrion. The smell of something rotting.

I thought maybe I needed a shower.

Someone passed by me carrying the sweet smell of perfume.

I like sweet smells.

“Hey, could you help me?”

“I don’t have cash, sorry.”

“No, no, I need help.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Please, I just need a shower.”

“I’m not going home.”

Bitch. She’s lying to me.

Why do people become so disgusted by me?

As I walked back from the intersection toward the bridge, the sun was blazing and I was sweating.

I was tired.

“Can somebody help me?”

I think I’m dying.

The smell of rot wouldn’t leave. I thought once I left the intersection I’d stop smelling it, but it followed me all the way back. I searched around, even lifted my mattress to check if a dead rat was underneath it. Nothing.

But I found my scissors. I’d really been wondering where they were.

I lay down on the mattress. I tried closing my eyes, but they refused to shut.

The murmuring on my right returned.

“You need a shower.”

I need to find somewhere to shower.

I started walking toward Mesilat Yesharim Street.

After a good shower I probably won’t smell this carcass anymore.

The street was dark and the smell of dinner floated through the air.

“It’s here,” I heard the murmuring again. There was a sweet smell — the same perfume from earlier. Maybe she really had gone home after all.

I walked in without knocking.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Avi, is that you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come back later?”

The entrance was a long hallway with a shoe cabinet. Above it hung the kind of painting people make in beginner art classes.

I kept walking toward the living room.

There were three couches in there. Who needs that many couches?

She was sitting on the leather couch reading a Haruki Murakami book. A cup of tea sat beside her.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Wh— who are you? What are you doing in my house? If you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police.”

“You don’t remember me? It’s me from earlier. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m warning you one last time—”

I just wanted to touch her for a second. That’s all it would take. I was sure she’d remember once I got close enough.

The smell of rot came back again. Where the fuck was it coming from?

She started running from the living room toward the kitchen, but tripped over one of the rugs.

“Just let me touch you. You’ll remember me, I promise.”

“Don’t touch me!”

She tried unlocking her phone but seemed to forget the password.

“You’ll see… really, all it takes is one little handshake and you’ll remember me.”

“My husband should be home any minute. Please, I’m begging you, I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re important to me. It’s me. How can’t you see it’s me?”

She slapped me across the face and tried shoving me away.

Why doesn’t she remember me?

“Why did you do that?”

There was a scratch across my face. Blood trickled from it.

Liquid. I need to wash.

A shiver passed through my body.

The scissors. They were in my pocket.

A wet tearing sound burst out of her as I drove the scissors into her right eye. A ripping noise, metal sinking deep into the socket until the handle hit bone.

Sticky fluid sprayed across my face.

Liquid. Finally, liquid.

She started screaming and sobbing.

She tried to stand but stumbled and collapsed again.

“Where’s your shower?”

She screamed. Why wasn’t she answering me?

“Where’s your shower?”

White and red fluid poured from the empty socket. She wasn’t screaming anymore.

“Please… I’m begging you,” she whimpered.

Something cracked as I pulled the scissors back out.

I gripped the handles. More fluid sprayed onto my face.

Where’s her shower?

“Where’s your shower?”

She didn’t answer anymore.

I searched for the bathroom. There were too many rooms in this place.

It still smelled bad in here.

“Why does your place smell so rotten?”

She still didn’t answer.

The door closest to the kitchen led me into the bathroom.

The room was covered in white tiles, lit by white neon lights, with a large mirror.

I stepped into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water.

The water washed everything off me.

I disappeared into it.

“Ruth, are you here?”

“Ruth? Oh my God. Ruth?”

I heard someone come inside, but the water washed away even my desire to go back out there.

My leg hurt badly.

I heard sirens.

Good thing the smell was gone.

Would like to get some feedback:

My leg had been hurting for three days. There was an infection there, one I’d been ignoring for months. I kept searching my body for new spots. My arms had swollen up, I’d already blown out every vein in the upper half of my body.

A few months ago I met a girl. I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. I don’t even remember her name, but she was beautiful — someone who hadn’t been on the street long enough for her body to start falling apart yet. We fucked and did heroin together.

“Here, I made you a shot too.”

“I don’t share needles, thanks.”

“What, you think I’m gonna give you diseases?”

“…Fine, give it here.”

“You’re easy to convince.”

“Yeah.”

She died. I stayed alive.

A week later the pain started. I tried to avoid looking at the area. I wore a thick sock to keep pressure on it. The last time I took the sock off was because I had no choice anymore — they smelled rotten. The fabric had turned yellow from all the pus leaking out of the wound. Every step I took made a wet squishing sound from inside my foot, and three new black holes had appeared around the one I used to inject into.

I stopped doing heroin. It made me too heavy. I switched to amphetamines instead. They gave me motivation to collect money.

I dragged myself from the Ayalon bridge — where I slept — toward the intersection. I wondered if maybe nobody would be there yet. Maybe I could collect enough money before it got too hot.

A cold sweat started running through me. My heartbeat sped up and everything became blurry.

I heard murmuring to my right, but nobody was there.

My muscles were shaking. It was hard to stand.

“Wait… can somebody help me?”

Someone handed me a coin.

“You’ve got a ba—”

I was standing in the middle of the road.

A car passed on my right. I tried limping toward the sidewalk, but my limp was slowing traffic down.

“Get out of the road, you filthy junkie!”

How did I even get to the intersection?

No matter where I walked, there was a smell of carrion. The smell of something rotting.

I thought maybe I needed a shower.

Someone passed by me carrying the sweet smell of perfume.

I like sweet smells.

“Hey, could you help me?”

“I don’t have cash, sorry.”

“No, no, I need help.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Please, I just need a shower.”

“I’m not going home.”

Bitch. She’s lying to me.

Why do people become so disgusted by me?

As I walked back from the intersection toward the bridge, the sun was blazing and I was sweating.

I was tired.

“Can somebody help me?”

I think I’m dying.

The smell of rot wouldn’t leave. I thought once I left the intersection I’d stop smelling it, but it followed me all the way back. I searched around, even lifted my mattress to check if a dead rat was underneath it. Nothing.

But I found my scissors. I’d really been wondering where they were.

I lay down on the mattress. I tried closing my eyes, but they refused to shut.

The murmuring on my right returned.

“You need a shower.”

I need to find somewhere to shower.

I started walking toward Mesilat Yesharim Street.

After a good shower I probably won’t smell this carcass anymore.

The street was dark and the smell of dinner floated through the air.

“It’s here,” I heard the murmuring again. There was a sweet smell — the same perfume from earlier. Maybe she really had gone home after all.

I walked in without knocking.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Avi, is that you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come back later?”

The entrance was a long hallway with a shoe cabinet. Above it hung the kind of painting people make in beginner art classes.

I kept walking toward the living room.

There were three couches in there. Who needs that many couches?

She was sitting on the leather couch reading a Haruki Murakami book. A cup of tea sat beside her.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Wh— who are you? What are you doing in my house? If you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police.”

“You don’t remember me? It’s me from earlier. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m warning you one last time—”

I just wanted to touch her for a second. That’s all it would take. I was sure she’d remember once I got close enough.

The smell of rot came back again. Where the fuck was it coming from?

She started running from the living room toward the kitchen, but tripped over one of the rugs.

“Just let me touch you. You’ll remember me, I promise.”

“Don’t touch me!”

She tried unlocking her phone but seemed to forget the password.

“You’ll see… really, all it takes is one little handshake and you’ll remember me.”

“My husband should be home any minute. Please, I’m begging you, I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re important to me. It’s me. How can’t you see it’s me?”

She slapped me across the face and tried shoving me away.

Why doesn’t she remember me?

“Why did you do that?”

There was a scratch across my face. Blood trickled from it.

Liquid. I need to wash.

A shiver passed through my body.

The scissors. They were in my pocket.

A wet tearing sound burst out of her as I drove the scissors into her right eye. A ripping noise, metal sinking deep into the socket until the handle hit bone.

Sticky fluid sprayed across my face.

Liquid. Finally, liquid.

She started screaming and sobbing.

She tried to stand but stumbled and collapsed again.

“Where’s your shower?”

She screamed. Why wasn’t she answering me?

“Where’s your shower?”

White and red fluid poured from the empty socket. She wasn’t screaming anymore.

“Please… I’m begging you,” she whimpered.

Something cracked as I pulled the scissors back out.

I gripped the handles. More fluid sprayed onto my face.

Where’s her shower?

“Where’s your shower?”

She didn’t answer anymore.

I searched for the bathroom. There were too many rooms in this place.

It still smelled bad in here.

“Why does your place smell so rotten?”

She still didn’t answer.

The door closest to the kitchen led me into the bathroom.

The room was covered in white tiles, lit by white neon lights, with a large mirror.

I stepped into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water.

The water washed everything off me.

I disappeared into it.

“Ruth, are you here?”

“Ruth? Oh my God. Ruth?”

I heard someone come inside, but the water washed away even my desire to go back out there.

My leg hurt badly.

I heard sirens.

Good thing the smell was gone

My leg had been hurting for three days. There was an infection there, one I’d been ignoring for months. I kept searching my body for new spots. My arms had swollen up, I’d already blown out every vein in the upper half of my body.

A few months ago I met a girl. I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. I don’t even remember her name, but she was beautiful — someone who hadn’t been on the street long enough for her body to start falling apart yet. We fucked and did heroin together.

“Here, I made you a shot too.”

“I don’t share needles, thanks.”

“What, you think I’m gonna give you diseases?”

“…Fine, give it here.”

“You’re easy to convince.”

“Yeah.”

She died. I stayed alive.

A week later the pain started. I tried to avoid looking at the area. I wore a thick sock to keep pressure on it. The last time I took the sock off was because I had no choice anymore — they smelled rotten. The fabric had turned yellow from all the pus leaking out of the wound. Every step I took made a wet squishing sound from inside my foot, and three new black holes had appeared around the one I used to inject into.

I stopped doing heroin. It made me too heavy. I switched to amphetamines instead. They gave me motivation to collect money.

I dragged myself from the Ayalon bridge — where I slept — toward the intersection. I wondered if maybe nobody would be there yet. Maybe I could collect enough money before it got too hot.

A cold sweat started running through me. My heartbeat sped up and everything became blurry.

I heard murmuring to my right, but nobody was there.

My muscles were shaking. It was hard to stand.

“Wait… can somebody help me?”

Someone handed me a coin.

“You’ve got a ba—”

I was standing in the middle of the road.

A car passed on my right. I tried limping toward the sidewalk, but my limp was slowing traffic down.

“Get out of the road, you filthy junkie!”

How did I even get to the intersection?

No matter where I walked, there was a smell of carrion. The smell of something rotting.

I thought maybe I needed a shower.

Someone passed by me carrying the sweet smell of perfume.

I like sweet smells.

“Hey, could you help me?”

“I don’t have cash, sorry.”

“No, no, I need help.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Please, I just need a shower.”

“I’m not going home.”

Bitch. She’s lying to me.

Why do people become so disgusted by me?

As I walked back from the intersection toward the bridge, the sun was blazing and I was sweating.

I was tired.

“Can somebody help me?”

I think I’m dying.

The smell of rot wouldn’t leave. I thought once I left the intersection I’d stop smelling it, but it followed me all the way back. I searched around, even lifted my mattress to check if a dead rat was underneath it. Nothing.

But I found my scissors. I’d really been wondering where they were.

I lay down on the mattress. I tried closing my eyes, but they refused to shut.

The murmuring on my right returned.

“You need a shower.”

I need to find somewhere to shower.

I started walking toward Mesilat Yesharim Street.

After a good shower I probably won’t smell this carcass anymore.

The street was dark and the smell of dinner floated through the air.

“It’s here,” I heard the murmuring again. There was a sweet smell — the same perfume from earlier. Maybe she really had gone home after all.

I walked in without knocking.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Avi, is that you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come back later?”

The entrance was a long hallway with a shoe cabinet. Above it hung the kind of painting people make in beginner art classes.

I kept walking toward the living room.

There were three couches in there. Who needs that many couches?

She was sitting on the leather couch reading a Haruki Murakami book. A cup of tea sat beside her.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Wh— who are you? What are you doing in my house? If you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police.”

“You don’t remember me? It’s me from earlier. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m warning you one last time—”

I just wanted to touch her for a second. That’s all it would take. I was sure she’d remember once I got close enough.

The smell of rot came back again. Where the fuck was it coming from?

She started running from the living room toward the kitchen, but tripped over one of the rugs.

“Just let me touch you. You’ll remember me, I promise.”

“Don’t touch me!”

She tried unlocking her phone but seemed to forget the password.

“You’ll see… really, all it takes is one little handshake and you’ll remember me.”

“My husband should be home any minute. Please, I’m begging you, I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re important to me. It’s me. How can’t you see it’s me?”

She slapped me across the face and tried shoving me away.

Why doesn’t she remember me?

“Why did you do that?”

There was a scratch across my face. Blood trickled from it.

Liquid. I need to wash.

A shiver passed through my body.

The scissors. They were in my pocket.

A wet tearing sound burst out of her as I drove the scissors into her right eye. A ripping noise, metal sinking deep into the socket until the handle hit bone.

Sticky fluid sprayed across my face.

Liquid. Finally, liquid.

She started screaming and sobbing.

She tried to stand but stumbled and collapsed again.

“Where’s your shower?”

She screamed. Why wasn’t she answering me?

“Where’s your shower?”

White and red fluid poured from the empty socket. She wasn’t screaming anymore.

“Please… I’m begging you,” she whimpered.

Something cracked as I pulled the scissors back out.

I gripped the handles. More fluid sprayed onto my face.

Where’s her shower?

“Where’s your shower?”

She didn’t answer anymore.

I searched for the bathroom. There were too many rooms in this place.

It still smelled bad in here.

“Why does your place smell so rotten?”

She still didn’t answer.

The door closest to the kitchen led me into the bathroom.

The room was covered in white tiles, lit by white neon lights, with a large mirror.

I stepped into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water.

The water washed everything off me.

I disappeared into it.

“Ruth, are you here?”

“Ruth? Oh my God. Ruth?”

I heard someone come inside, but the water washed away even my desire to go back out there.

My leg hurt badly.

I heard sirens.

Good thing the smell was gone

I’ve been working on a psychological horror story centered around homelessness, sleep deprivation, addiction, psychosis, and possible supernatural elements.

The story follows a homeless poly-drug addict

I’m mostly trying to create a slow descent where the reader can never fully tell what’s real.

Would love feedback mainly on:

• atmosphere
• realism/authenticity
• pacing
• whether the narrator feels believable

(Warning for heavy drug use, body horror, psychosis, self-harm, and disturbing imagery.)

My leg had been hurting for three days. There was an infection there, one I’d been ignoring for months. I kept searching my body for new spots. My arms had swollen up, I’d already blown out every vein in the upper half of my body.

A few months ago I met a girl. I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. I don’t even remember her name, but she was beautiful — someone who hadn’t been on the street long enough for her body to start falling apart yet. We fucked and did heroin together.

“Here, I made you a shot too.”

“I don’t share needles, thanks.”

“What, you think I’m gonna give you diseases?”

“…Fine, give it here.”

“You’re easy to convince.”

“Yeah.”

She died. I stayed alive.

A week later the pain started. I tried to avoid looking at the area. I wore a thick sock to keep pressure on it. The last time I took the sock off was because I had no choice anymore — they smelled rotten. The fabric had turned yellow from all the pus leaking out of the wound. Every step I took made a wet squishing sound from inside my foot, and three new black holes had appeared around the one I used to inject into.

I stopped doing heroin. It made me too heavy. I switched to amphetamines instead. They gave me motivation to collect money.

I dragged myself from the Ayalon bridge — where I slept — toward the intersection. I wondered if maybe nobody would be there yet. Maybe I could collect enough money before it got too hot.

A cold sweat started running through me. My heartbeat sped up and everything became blurry.

I heard murmuring to my right, but nobody was there.

My muscles were shaking. It was hard to stand.

“Wait… can somebody help me?”

Someone handed me a coin.

“You’ve got a ba—”

I was standing in the middle of the road.

A car passed on my right. I tried limping toward the sidewalk, but my limp was slowing traffic down.

“Get out of the road, you filthy junkie!”

How did I even get to the intersection?

No matter where I walked, there was a smell of carrion. The smell of something rotting.

I thought maybe I needed a shower.

Someone passed by me carrying the sweet smell of perfume.

I like sweet smells.

“Hey, could you help me?”

“I don’t have cash, sorry.”

“No, no, I need help.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Please, I just need a shower.”

“I’m not going home.”

Bitch. She’s lying to me.

Why do people become so disgusted by me?

As I walked back from the intersection toward the bridge, the sun was blazing and I was sweating.

I was tired.

“Can somebody help me?”

I think I’m dying.

The smell of rot wouldn’t leave. I thought once I left the intersection I’d stop smelling it, but it followed me all the way back. I searched around, even lifted my mattress to check if a dead rat was underneath it. Nothing.

But I found my scissors. I’d really been wondering where they were.

I lay down on the mattress. I tried closing my eyes, but they refused to shut.

The murmuring on my right returned.

“You need a shower.”

I need to find somewhere to sleep.

I started walking toward Mesilat Yesharim Street.

After a good shower I probably won’t smell this carcass anymore.

The street was dark and the smell of dinner floated through the air.

“It’s here,” I heard the murmuring again. There was a sweet smell — the same perfume from earlier. Maybe she really had gone home after all.

I walked in without knocking.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Avi, is that you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come back later?”

The entrance was a long hallway with a shoe cabinet. Above it hung the kind of painting people make in beginner art classes.

I kept walking toward the living room.

There were three couches in there. Who needs that many couches?

She was sitting on the leather couch reading a Haruki Murakami book. A cup of tea sat beside her.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Wh— who are you? What are you doing in my house? If you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police.”

“You don’t remember me? It’s me from earlier. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m warning you one last time—”

I just wanted to touch her for a second. That’s all it would take. I was sure she’d remember once I got close enough.

The smell of rot came back again. Where the fuck was it coming from?

She started running from the living room toward the kitchen, but tripped over one of the rugs.

“Just let me touch you. You’ll remember me, I promise.”

“Don’t touch me!”

She tried unlocking her phone but seemed to forget the password.

“You’ll see… really, all it takes is one little handshake and you’ll remember me.”

“My husband should be home any minute. Please, I’m begging you, I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re important to me. It’s me. How can’t you see it’s me?”

She slapped me across the face and tried shoving me away.

Why doesn’t she remember me?

“Why did you do that?”

There was a scratch across my face. Blood trickled from it.

Liquid. I need to wash.

A shiver passed through my body.

The scissors. They were in my pocket.

A wet tearing sound burst out of her as I drove the scissors into her right eye. A ripping noise, metal sinking deep into the socket until the handle hit bone.

Sticky fluid sprayed across my face.

Liquid. Finally, liquid.

She started screaming and sobbing.

She tried to stand but stumbled and collapsed again.

“Where’s your shower?”

She screamed. Why wasn’t she answering me?

“Where’s your shower?”

White and red fluid poured from the empty socket. She wasn’t screaming anymore.

“Please… I’m begging you,” she whimpered.

Something cracked as I pulled the scissors back out.

I gripped the handles. More fluid sprayed onto my face.

Where’s her shower?

“Where’s your shower?”

She didn’t answer anymore.

I searched for the bathroom. There were too many rooms in this place.

It still smelled bad in here.

“Why does your place smell so rotten?”

She still didn’t answer.

The door closest to the kitchen led me into the bathroom.

The room was covered in white tiles, lit by white neon lights, with a large mirror.

I looked terrible.

I stepped into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water.

The water washed everything off me.

I disappeared into it.

“Ruth, are you here?”

“Ruth? Oh my God. Ruth?”

I heard someone come inside, but the water washed away even my desire to go back out there.

My leg hurt badly.

I heard sirens.

Good thing the smell was gone.

I’ve been working on a psychological horror story centered around homelessness, sleep deprivation, addiction, psychosis, and possible supernatural elements.

The story follows a homeless poly-drug addict in Tel Aviv after he loses an eye during what may have been a psychotic episode — or something else entirely.

I’m mostly trying to create a slow descent where the reader can never fully tell what’s real.

Would love feedback mainly on:

• atmosphere
• realism/authenticity
• pacing
• whether the narrator feels believable

(Warning for heavy drug use, body horror, psychosis, self-harm, and disturbing imagery.)

Back in those days I mostly wandered around the bridge near Ayalon. I spent most of my time between Mesilat Yesharim Street and Mikveh Israel Street, not because there was necessarily the most money there, I just liked the people who passed through every day.

For example, there was the couple who always walked hand in hand, and even though I wandered between the cars talking to myself in a language nobody probably understood, they would ask how I was doing and almost always buy me chocolate milk on their way back from wherever they had gone.

Or the old man who lived near the grocery store. Sometimes he seemed even more confused than I was, but every now and then, during moments when both of us were lucid, or at least it felt that way, we would sit quietly and each drink a beer.

I used to sleep under the bridge. The white noise helped me fall asleep, and usually a police officer only came by once every few months to move me away. It always happened whenever I started allowing myself to feel too much at home.

One time I even hung up that famous “Crying Boy” painting. I found it amusing, though apparently the people passing by found it a little disturbing.

I would stay awake for days at a time.

At first I can honestly say I thought I understood what was happening. I believed sleep deprivation didn’t affect me the way it affected other people. I’m what many people call a poly-drug addict. It never really mattered to me what the substance was, as long as I didn’t have to carry the weight of my own thoughts.

I remember walking one day from my bridge toward Mesilat Yesharim. It was the third day I had been awake, and I was starting to run out of Mephedrone. I loved doing Mephedrone. The only problem was the comedown. Unlike other amphetamines, if I stayed awake for more than two days and used more than a gram, the third day was guaranteed to become psychotic. That’s why I tried to avoid it whenever possible.

It was a hot day, and I was badly dehydrated, though that wasn’t unusual for me. On a good day I drank maybe two glasses of water.

I started seeing familiar faces everywhere. Everyone looked like childhood friends, but every time I got closer I realized they weren’t. My heart started pounding. I began sweating. Everything around me started vibrating and my field of vision warped like I was looking through a fisheye lens.

I completely lost the muscle tone in my legs.

I tried to scream, but all that came out was a choking rasp.

For a moment I thought I was dying, but I simply passed out.

When I woke up I was lying on the sidewalk drenched in sweat. After a few minutes I managed to stand up and realized there was something in my pocket.

An envelope.

I didn’t want to open it.

For a week I left it there in my pocket. Something about it terrified me, and the paranoia definitely didn’t help. After that incident I spent two days with a racing heartbeat, convinced every second that something terrible was about to happen.

But one day, not because of courage, it simply happened absentmindedly, I took it out and opened it.

“You look like you could use some food and rest. You’re welcome to come to 3 Asirei Zion Street, 7th floor, apartment 25.”

I was hungry.

People think they know what hunger is, but a person only understands real hunger after several days without being able to eat.

I was already feeling weak. Even walking to one of the intersections to beg for money had become difficult, and part of me wondered if maybe I could find something small in that apartment that I could steal and survive on for a month or two.

I couldn’t bring myself to go there.

Without noticing, a month passed. That’s how it is. A month passes without you noticing.

Sleeping on the street isn’t exactly an optimal human experience, though maybe it is. Human beings slept in nature for thousands of years. It’s not that different. Maybe even more comfortable.

One Friday, I remember it was Friday because I remember the Sabbath entrance song playing somewhere in the background, I had once again been awake for days. I think this time I even surpassed myself and stayed awake for four full days.

I started seeing blurry. I heard whispers coming from different directions. I was sure I saw someone standing there, and then suddenly they vanished.

Then a powerful light appeared.

I started running toward it and screaming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t stop crying. I was certain a messenger of God had appeared before me, but the moment I got closer I realized it wasn’t an angel.

It was a devil.

Its smile almost reached its ears, and its eyes were positioned too close together. What had first looked divine instantly became grotesque in a way I had never even seen in my worst nightmares.

The last thing I remember is it driving a needle into my eye.

Then I woke up in a hospital.

When I woke up there were several doctors around me who looked deeply concerned, and my hand was strapped to the hospital bed.

“Hello Adam,” one of the doctors asked. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

“I saw the devil. Other than that I don’t remember how I got here, but the last thing I remember is him stabbing me in the eye with a needle.”

What I said clearly disturbed them. One of the doctors stepped outside to speak with what looked from a distance like police officers waiting in the hallway.

About fifteen minutes later the doctor returned.

“Listen, it seems you experienced a psychotic episode and stabbed yourself in the eye with a needle. The needle was completely contaminated, so we had to remove what was left of the eye. We spoke with the police and they intend to question you in a few days, but for now just rest.”

The doctor left and I remained alone in the room.

Thankfully I didn’t need to worry about drugs, because after what I’d done they pumped me full of opioids. I barely remembered what I had done to myself, let alone had the ability to reflect on it.

An hour or two later I noticed the envelope sitting on the table beside me.

I wondered when it had gotten there.

This time I didn’t hesitate.

“I’m sorry about your eye. The invitation still stands.”

The police asked a few questions. All the questions could basically be summarized as:

“Why did you do what you did?”

Since the only answer I could give was that it wasn’t me who did it, that creature attacked me and took my eye, there wasn’t much progress.

It was amazing how quickly I got used to having one eye. My depth perception was damaged, but before long my brain started compensating for it.

The only thing nobody warned me about was a phenomenon that took me a long time to get used to. Eventually I even discovered it had a name.

Charles Bonnet Syndrome.

Almost from the very first day I suspected I was seeing someone standing off to the side. At first it looked faceless, but slowly it began taking shape, and the shape always looked as if someone on acid had completely rearranged a human face.

The features were strangely geometric, too angular. The nose was usually either too close to the forehead or too close to the chin.

And it never spoke.

It only stared.

After a few weeks I learned to ignore it. During moments of boredom I even started enjoying the experience.

When I was discharged it was 3:30 in the afternoon, and all I did was wait until six in the evening.

I left the hospital just as addicted as I had entered it.

The entire time they had kept pumping me with opioids, probably because they didn’t want to deal with a junkie in withdrawal on top of a one-eyed patient.

At that moment all I wanted was to reach that apartment and find something I could steal from there.

I wasn’t hungry anymore.

But a shower definitely wouldn’t have hurt.

The streets were quieter than usual. At first I wondered if it was Friday or maybe a holiday, but it wasn’t. It was simply one of those days when most of the city decided not to go outside.

There were heavy clouds and the wind cooled me down.

I decided to pass through Neve Sha’anan. I had a feeling I might find someone I knew and maybe score a bag or two before going to whoever’s apartment this was.

When I arrived everything looked exactly as though I had never left. The only difference was that the city had replaced the streetlamp someone crashed into a few months earlier.

It was a refreshing change.

“Hey Adam, haven’t seen you around in a while. I thought maybe you got clean or died. What happened to your eye?”

“Don’t ask. Somebody stabbed me. Tell me, what are the chances you’ve got something? Even a little. To snort, inject, I don’t care. I’ll get you money in the next few days.”

“We haven’t seen each other in almost a month and that’s the first thing you ask me? Honestly, you never change.”

It was Ahmad.

Me and Ahmad were the kind of friends people only call friends because there isn’t another word for it. Mostly we did heroin together.

Ahmad mainly liked opioids, and sometimes we would go fuck some prostitute on his expense. Ahmad was a drug dealer and a pretty unsuccessful pimp. He had a few addicted prostitutes around his age, and more than once I found myself wondering if they might die the second I put my dick inside their limp bodies.

I always liked older women, but they were far beyond merely old. Years of heroin use and countless random men entering you or asking strange things of you over the years does something to the body.

Something hard to explain.

Like a giant scar, except in the soul, if such a thing even exists.

Most of the time I’m not a very believing person.

A lot of times I wanted badly to believe, but no matter what I did I simply couldn’t hold onto faith. Sometimes I would pass by a synagogue and think about how lonely I was, imagining my life as a religious person.

But the problem is that I mostly fantasized about what I imagined that experience felt like, not what it actually contained.

In the end, I simply wasn’t made to believe.

Even when I took LSD, while I had many experiences I would describe as spiritual, none of them turned me into a believer.

Maybe the only thing I believed was that the only person who could save you was yourself.

“I got amazing heroin,” Ahmad said. “But it’s not cheap.”

“I don’t really care about quality. Sometimes I even prefer when they mix it with fentanyl. Makes it last longer.”

“Honestly, me and you think exactly alike. I don’t understand why people complain when they’re basically strengthening the product.”

Those were usually our conversations.

What was happening in the drug market.

Who had died recently from an overdose.

Who got AIDS.

Most conversations revolved around that tiny world connected entirely to the street.

Even back then I wasn’t entirely sure what normal people talked about anymore, and I preferred to speak as little as possible.

I did a few lines of heroin and headed toward Asirei Zion.

I never liked injecting heroin. It was hard finding a clean needle, and I never liked sharing needles with people.

As I walked toward Asirei Zion I started sweating again. Ever since childhood I had always been someone who sweated more than most people.

I was already waiting for the shower.

And I was getting hungry.

After almost two weeks in the hospital I had forgotten what hunger even felt like.

It’s amazing how quickly human beings adapt to change.

The building was relatively new, maybe no older than fifteen years. Very Russian-looking. Gray, with windows that looked older than they actually were.

The entrance door was open.

I wondered whether I would even need to ring the intercom.

There were two elevators.

The one I stepped into looked as though it had been renovated just two days earlier, and its design was far too modern compared to how the building looked from outside.

I wondered if the second elevator looked the same.

The elevator opened.

On the left side of the hallway were two apartment doors, both surrounded by children’s toys.

On the right side there was only one door.

And that was my door.