Malcolm Mathew collapsed in a heap, his long hair hitting the bare balcony floor, even before the smoke left his body fully.
He had arrived exactly 7 minutes ago, armed with a packet of blackish browish looking substance, much to the amusement of his peers. He had frowned, when he looked at his handiwork after 3 minutes. Something told him, there was something fishy about this substance, but he brushed the thought aside.
The moment he inhaled, he knew. His chest hurt. His body shook. His eyes rolled. His windpipe choked. His insides spasmed. He felt he was falling, somewhere deep inside an abyss filled with desolate spirits. He clutched his head, he wanted to puke, and purge this poison he’d inhaled through smoke.
Malcolm Mathew had passed out in a balcony overlooking the 7th floor of a quaint housing society.
A dazed Malcolm opened his eyes 3 hours later. It was pitch dark. He felt dust on his lips. He didn’t feel like moving. He wanted water. His head felt like it was going to split. A few centimetres ahead, right in front of his vision, he saw the substance.
His face contorted. He wanted to kill. He wanted machetes, to massacre the peddlers who had sold him poison in marijuana’s name. He’d fuck their happiness. He swore on his life, he swore on Lord Shiva’s name, and then miraculously found the strength to trudge back inside his room.
He slept for 17 hours.