Translucence: Everything that’s Dark

Hughes had a slight hunch that these were not allowed to this “Jay” guy for the time- released purpose of relieving pain. OxyContin, in its rainbow of colors, appeared innocuous; straight from Purdue, cut by pharmacists, prescribed by physicians, and dealt to the children without the (oft-ignored) warning label, the pills were like Flintstones, and were eaten with abandon. Where crystal meth was a dirty garage lab fabrication of a true prescription for narcolepsy, these were “pure”; and, because anyone can discover and complain of a pain, somewhere, the pills were also “restorative.” And highly, highly addictive, and consequently never good enough. And consequently a sculptor, of the innocent, acne-scarred pubescent into the addled fiend, who, having exhausted the faith and trust of his family and friends and court-imposed minimum sentence hand-slaps; which, having grubbed and scraped and clawed its way through its mother’s purse and father’s wallet and department store theft protection devices, and saturated with opioid tolerance, will scamper straight to the heroin. A butterfly’s wing-flap away from total destruction. He’d recently contributed a column to Meadowmont’s non-profit magazine, The Buzz, entitled Substances and the Sexual Life. It was a vent, an outlet, and he did not expect it to get published. But, it did. In it, he alluded to Charlie, yes; but more, to his growing concern regarding naïve abuse—alcohol, pills, and now heroin—especially in the younger generation. The school system liked what he had to say. He was slated to present at Redwood next week. Zachary Hughes had had enough. To hell with Just Say No, D.A.R.E., Red Ribbon Weeks, Scared Straight and the government “War on--.” He was done. Programs did nothing but placate through attempt, at least we’re trying here; and the Law was overrun, and merely sympathetic. Hughes, however, had a stake in this thing. This shit was personal.