[ WP ] A new drug hits the clubbing scene - cheap , very addictive , a great high and seemingly safe .

My friend died of an overdose. It was n't really a *death* as such, just he flopped down next to me in the evening as a smooth skinned fourteen year old and downed the bottle so he could sleep. In the morning, he was nothing but a damp stain on the mattress. Kind of more an *unbirth. * 
 
 
 I'd heard about these side effects, but never seen them happen. Ageing is a slow process, even when it's in reverse. When they started asking me for my ID outside clubs and bars again I was first flattered, later worried. I'd look in the mirror every night and smooth back the crow's lines by the sides of my eyes. But it was incredibly cheap, and it made me feel on top of the world. You could drink on it and not get a hangover. You could dance all night and not get tired the next day. It perked you up, made you happy and friendly. Kinda whipped the fog away and made you in the bright, happy person you knew you were supposed to be. What was the point in stopping taking it? 
 
 
 
 I was old when I started. Past my prime. They should n't have let me into clubs, but I hung on to my glory days with two hands, tight. And one night the pill was slipped into my hand and the world changed. I was reborn. 
 
 
 It turned out just like any other drug, did n't it? I lost my job because who employs a clear-skinned eighteen year old with long legs and green eyes as a head of management? My income dried up. My landlord terminated my lease and told me to go back home to my parents. Both my parents had been in the ground for many years. I was fifty years old and I could twist men round my fingers again. 
 
 
 It is glorious to be young. 
 
 
 You ca n't stop taking it. 
 
 
 The day he died I woke up, lounging on a greying mattress. Squatting was n't glamorous, but at night I could be anyone I wanted. I lit up and inhaled slowly, trying not to think about the fact that after tonight I'd have to ask someone else to buy my fags for me. I kept a shard of mirror under the pillow. Funny how vanity stays with you even when you're brought this low. I did n't want to look in it. I had the physical appearance of a sixteen year old; my gangly limbs folding around me like a young foal's. My skin would still be clear, despite the horrendous amounts of cigarettes I smoked and what I drank every night. He was asleep next to me, a fifteen year old curled around the filthy blanket like a teddy bear. Muscles ran under his smooth skin. He'd stopped having to shave his face three weeks ago. Soon even his leg hair would drop out. 
 
 
 `` Hey, Yan. Wake up.'' I stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete floor and sighed. Luckily for both of us, there were plenty of people willing to pay for experienced adults with the bodies of quasi-children. 
 
 
 He yawned and turned over, wide eyes blinking themselves awake. 
 
 
 I'll never forget those eyes. You ca n't bury a wankstain. 
 
 
 I'm in a children's home now. I'm writing this with crayons on paper. My hands ca n't get the letters right and it's frustrating. My legs swing above the ground on this pink chair. One of the Sisters have tied my hair back in pigtails. I think it's shepherd's pie and carrots for dinner. I wish I could reach the stove, because I do n't like either of those. 
 
 
 I could n't stop. 
 
 
 I could n't stop. 
 
 
 As soon as I'm old enough I'll start again. 
 
 
 If only to be young again.
