Omnis nigritudo re vera albitudo est, si credis.

On the night you left I came over, and we peeled the freckles from our shoulders. Our brand new coats were so fleshed and pink, and I knew your heart I couldn't win. Coz the seasons' change was a conduit, and we'd left our love in our summer skin...

Feeling very sad and melancholy tonight. Not in a self-destructive way; more like a large rock has been placed on my chest and is weighing my heart down. It is at times like this that I should cry, but I can not at the moment. The feelings stay trapped and I attempt to flush them out with words and music but it is difficult some nights to do so. I will tell stories and hope for a more robust constitution at the end of it all.

The night I told Rubin I couldn't prospect anymore was one of the most harrowing of my life. I had been feeling increasingly guilty and anxious about casing houses and trafficking dope from tinny house to tinny house. I didn't get anything in return for it, and even if I had, it was in the form of respect from criminals. I didn't covet this. I didn't need it. I sure as hell didn't want to become a gangster. The reason I did it in the first place is hard - this many years down the track - to fully remember. I had justified it in my head along the lines of, "well, there's free drugs to be had, and that's pretty sweet." Facetious thinking combined with naivety: a ridiculous mix.

It was a Saturday night. I had smoked some weed before heading around to see Rubin at his flat. It was surprisingly well-kept on the outside, but a mess inside. When I knocked on the door, Rubin answered and let me in. He sat me down, offered me a bong (which I took) and said he had to use the phone.

I listened to him talking to someone about something obscure. He didn't laugh; his voice tense and business-like. He may have been threatening whoever was on the other end. I didn't want to know. Knowledge is dangerous around fiends, even I knew this. I puffed on the bong and leafed through some circulars that were scattered on the floor. Rubin returned, took the bong from me and smoked a couple himself. "So, what'd yu wanna talk to me 'bout, bro? Ev'ryfing all good?"

Mellow, as casually as possible: "Yeah everything's sweet as, man. But I wanted to talk to you about, ah..." I decided to just come out and say it. "I don't think I want to prospect anymore. It's just not for me, bro."

Rubin looked up from his bong and tilted his head to the side. "Tha's a shame, bro. A real shame. But there ain't nuffing I can do bowt that is there? Yu made yaw mind up?" I nodded. "Look, those fullas I in-tra-dooced yu to tha ova monf? They woan be pleased bowt this, but yaw a good kid an' I doan want nuffing to happen to yu. So yu out, bro. We'll tell 'em yu up an' moved wif yaw folks at shawt notice. No worries."

Relief swept over me in hot waves. My face burned red with weightlessness. "Thanks, bro. You're the man."

"Doan menshin it, bro. Yu wasn't cut owt faw this shit in tha firs' place. Yu a good kid, got a good 'ead on yaw shoulders. Yu doan need this life. Na, fuck that! I could'a had me a good educayshin and all that too but I fucked up and chose this parf instead. But, hey? Doan mean me an' yu can't drop us a tab'a this acid I got hold of ta'day, does it?"

Laughing, eyes lit up like glow-worms: "I think we could manage that!"

***

We dropped a tab, cracked a can of beer each and sat back on Rubin's busted old furniture and waited. Half an hour in I felt the first waves of euphoria sweeping through me, like a tidal shift washing away the detritus lying on the beaches of my insides. An hour into the trip I thought of the old theory that all life is made up of particles vibrating at high speed. Everything came perfectly to me. All matter was made clear and true, like the first crack of sunlight on a summer's dawn. I could see every particle, every vibration, all matter reduced to it's most simplistic form. I saw inside the secret-scroll of the world in Rubin's grubby, dilapidated flat.

About three hours after dropping, we began to come down. Rubin thought a few beers would help ease the transition from fully-enlightened to sludge-brained troglodyte a little easier. We had already finished the four cans he had left, however, so decided a walk to the liquor store would be a good idea.

We had walked about four blocks when the car pulled up in the driveway in front of us. Four men wearing balaclavas and leather scrambled out, carrying baseball bats or chains. Rubin only had time to exclaim, in a surprised voice, "Oh, shit," before three of them were upon him. A heard the crack of a bat against his arm as Rubin attempted to block a shot to his head. He yelped in pain but fought back. I was tackled by the fourth guy. He pummelled at my head and shoulders. His breath was foul and I could see a sort of madness in his eyes. Not without it's charms, madness. Though no good to me at the time.

I drove a knee into his groin and rolled on top of him. Punching his face and grabbing at his balaclava, I managed to subdue him. Turning around, I saw Rubin being beaten on the pavement. His face was bloodied and bruised. He yelled at me, "Run, bro! Fuckin' run!" I didn't hesitate.

***

I had been running for nearly twenty minutes when I decided the skate park was as good a place to hide as any. My head was a mess of acid and fear. This is never a good combination. I was panting and crying, unable to make sense of what was going on around me. I had heard police sirens behind me as I had been running which only served to ratchet up the weirdness inside my head. I staggered into the deserted skate park and slumped down behind a ramp.

I had a bleeding nose and could feel my lip swelling up. I didn't care. It was then that I saw the loose board on one of the wooden skate ramps. I wriggled through the small opening, pulling the wooden slat back into place as well as I could. It was cramped and I lay on my stomach, gathering my thoughts by slow, agonising degrees. My head was still spinning. I worried about Rubin, which quickly turned into paranoia that he had been beaten to death, or stabbed or shot. Then, guilt. Like a mangy dog, it slinked into the periphery. Hunting for any scraps, needing only the slightest opportunity, it overcame me until I was convinced Rubin was dead and the gangsters who had attacked us were driving the streets looking for me.

I didn't dare move.

As the acid wore off progressively, the world around me turned sour. I was peeking out from beneath the skate ramp at the road. There were a set of shops across the street; a yellow street light throwing a dull haze over them. I could see the wood rotting in front of my eyes. I could see the grime in the corners of the buildings creeping across the boards. I saw cracks in the glass and paint flaking off like burnt skin. I saw how disgusting my existence had become.

I cried again now, but not in fear this time. I cried for myself. I cried for the kid I used to be; the boy with long hair who loved sports, his friends, his music and video games. The kid who loved his family. I wanted nothing more than to escape what I was becoming. I pictured myself ten years down the track selling dope to teenagers and going nowhere. I thought of Rubin, beaten or dead on the road, four blocks from his shitty flat, and knew that this was the end of my sortie on the wrong side of the tracks. I swore, then and there, to give up the drugs and sort out my life. I wanted what my school friends had: a sane existence. Call me weak, but I'm not cut out for the shit that comes from a life on the brink.

I never found out what happened to Rubin. In the morning I was woken by police and told to move on. I hitched a ride home and never went back. I had made a solemn oath, and I stuck to it. All in all, a wise decision. One of the few in my life.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to Rubin that night, but it serves no purpose. Logic tells me I would have read about it in the paper or seen it on the news if he had been murdered. Plus, Rubin knew what his life was about. He understood that you tread the boards in the criminal world warily. He knew his time - for a beating, or even for death - would come eventually. Hic est via.

Was your first kiss a good one?