The first hit
1672 Words
Pain changes shape when it stays too long.
At first grief had felt sharp.
Violent.
Like broken glass lodged beneath Fabrizio’s ribs every time he breathed.
But months after losing Arka, the pain became quieter.
Heavier.
Less dramatic and somehow worse.
Now it followed him constantly like weather.
He woke up exhausted no matter how much sleep he got. Food tasted dull. Music sounded empty. Even the countryside he once loved so deeply felt lifeless now.
The fields were still beautiful.
But beauty meant nothing when there was nobody left to share it with.
Fabrizio spent most days working beside his father mechanically. Wake up before sunrise. Feed horses. Repair fences. Move cattle. Sweat beneath brutal heat until evening.
Then night came.
And nights were dangerous.
Because silence always brought memory back.
One evening after work, Fabrizio sat outside the stable smoking while staring blankly across open farmland glowing gold beneath sunset.
His father walked over carrying two bottles of beer.
Without speaking, he handed one to Fabrizio and sat beside him.
For several minutes they drank quietly while insects buzzed through tall grass nearby.
Then his father finally asked:
“You and that boy stop talking?”
Fabrizio nearly choked on the beer.
He looked over immediately.
“What?”
“Arka.”
Hearing his name aloud after so long physically hurt.
Fabrizio stared down at the bottle in his hands.
“Why?”
“You used to smile more.”
The simplicity of the sentence nearly broke him.
His father wasn’t a deeply emotional man. He rarely asked personal questions. But fathers notice more than sons realize.
Especially fathers who have spent years watching silence settle into someone slowly.
“We’re just busy,” Fabrizio lied quietly.
His father nodded once.
But the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe him.
That night Fabrizio drank alone after everyone went to bed.
Then the next night too.
Then the night after that.
Alcohol became routine quickly.
Not because he enjoyed being drunk.
Because intoxication created distance between himself and memory.
For a few hours, thoughts slowed down enough to survive.
But eventually drinking stopped working properly.
Grief always pushed through eventually.
Always.
One weekend Fabrizio traveled with several ranch workers into Surabaya after getting paid. The city overwhelmed him every time he visited. Too loud. Too crowded. Too alive.
Motorbikes screamed through packed streets while neon signs glowed above endless bars, food stalls, clubs, and cigarette smoke drifting through humid air.
The other workers wanted to celebrate.
Fabrizio only wanted distraction.
That distinction mattered more than he realized.
The group ended up inside a dark nightclub packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sweating strangers moving beneath flashing lights. Bass vibrated through the floor hard enough to rattle bones.
Fabrizio hated places like that normally.
But the noise helped.
Noise prevented thinking.
One of the workers shoved another drink into his hand.
Then another.
Hours blurred afterward.
Sweat.
Alcohol.
Smoke.
Music so loud it erased thought entirely.
And for the first time in months, Fabrizio almost felt normal again.
Not happy.
But numb enough to resemble happiness.
That was dangerous.
Near midnight he wandered outside the club alone needing air.
The alley behind the building smelled like cigarettes, rainwater, and gasoline. Neon signs reflected in puddles while distant music still throbbed through concrete walls.
A man around his age leaned against the alley wall smoking.
Tattooed arms.
Sharp eyes.
Tired smile.
“You look miserable,” the stranger said casually.
Fabrizio laughed weakly.
“Feel miserable too.”
“Girl problems?”
Fabrizio hesitated.
Then shrugged.
“Something like that.”
The stranger studied him for a second before reaching into his pocket.
“You want something that helps?”
At first Fabrizio thought he meant another cigarette.
Then he saw the pills.
Small.
Harmless-looking.
Fabrizio immediately shook his head.
“I don’t do drugs.”
The stranger laughed softly.
“Neither do most people the first time.”
Something about that sentence stayed with him.
The first time.
Like addiction only belonged to other people until suddenly it didn’t.
Fabrizio should have walked away then.
He knew that.
Even now, years later in memory, he understood there was still time to leave.
But grief makes dangerous things look comforting.
And exhaustion makes relief look holy.
“What does it do?” he asked quietly.
The stranger shrugged.
“Depends what you need.”
That answer should have frightened him.
Instead it intrigued him.
Because Fabrizio desperately needed something.
Anything.
Relief.
Sleep.
Silence.
A way to stop feeling like his entire chest had been carved open permanently.
The stranger held out the pill again.
“First one’s free.”
Fabrizio stared at it for several seconds.
Then took it.
That tiny decision altered the rest of his life.
At first nothing happened.
The stranger lit another cigarette while Fabrizio leaned against the alley wall nervously waiting.
Then slowly—
warmth.
Not dramatic euphoria.
Not instant collapse.
Just warmth.
The tension inside his chest loosened slightly for the first time in nearly a year.
His thoughts slowed down.
The constant ache beneath his ribs softened.
Even breathing suddenly felt easier somehow.
The stranger smirked watching realization spread across Fabrizio’s face.
“Told you.”
Fabrizio laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because for the first time since losing Arka, the pain wasn’t screaming quite so loudly anymore.
And God.
That terrified him.
Because relief felt incredible.
The rest of the night blurred afterward.
He returned inside the club feeling lighter than he had in months. Music sounded warmer. People looked softer around the edges. Even memories of Arka stopped cutting quite as deeply.
For a few beautiful hours, Fabrizio escaped himself.
That was the real addiction.
Not pleasure.
Escape.
He didn’t return home until sunrise.
The countryside looked quiet and peaceful beneath pale morning light as he rode back toward the farm.
But something inside him had already shifted permanently.
He just didn’t know it yet.
Over the following weeks, Fabrizio couldn’t stop thinking about the pill.
Not obsessively at first.
Just curiously.
Like remembering the feeling of warmth after surviving endless cold.
And because life still hurt constantly, the memory of relief became impossible to ignore.
One night after another sleepless evening staring at old messages from Arka, Fabrizio finally called the number the stranger gave him.
Immediately afterward he hated himself for doing it.
But not enough to hang up.
A few days later he met the same man behind a convenience store near the city outskirts.
The stranger smiled knowingly when he arrived.
“Knew you’d call eventually.”
Fabrizio crossed his arms defensively.
“I just want something to help me sleep.”
The stranger laughed quietly.
“That’s what everybody says.”
The comment irritated him.
“I’m serious.”
“Sure.”
He handed Fabrizio two pills wrapped loosely in plastic.
“Careful with those.”
Fabrizio nodded.
Then bought them anyway.
The first time he used alone frightened him more than the first hit itself.
He sat inside the stable late at night while rain tapped softly against the roof overhead. Horses slept nearby shifting occasionally in darkness.
The pills rested in his palm while guilt twisted violently inside his stomach.
He knew this was wrong.
Knew it completely.
His father raised him better than this.
Arka would hate seeing him like this.
That thought almost stopped him.
Almost.
Then memory hit again.
Arka walking away into rain.
Arka saying stay away from me now.
Arka’s terrified eyes.
The loneliness returned so hard it physically hurt.
And suddenly survival mattered more than morality.
So Fabrizio swallowed the pills.
Then sat there waiting in silence.
The relief arrived slowly again.
Warmth spreading through his body.
Thoughts becoming softer.
The grief finally dimming enough to breathe around.
For the first time in nearly a year, Fabrizio slept peacefully.
No nightmares.
No waking up searching for headlights outside.
No replaying goodbye conversations endlessly inside his skull.
Just silence.
Deep, artificial silence.
And when he woke up the next morning, one horrifying realization settled quietly into his chest:
He finally found something capable of replacing Arka temporarily.
Not emotionally.
Nothing could do that.
But chemically.
The drugs reached parts of his pain that words never could.
That understanding became the beginning of the end.
At first he convinced himself he controlled it.
Only occasionally.
Only during bad nights.
Only when memories became unbearable.
But suffering creates its own logic.
And Fabrizio was suffering constantly now.
Soon “occasionally” became every weekend.
Then several nights a week.
Then almost daily.
The changes happened subtly enough that nobody noticed immediately.
Except the horses.
Oddly enough.
Animals sensed emotional shifts before humans ever did.
The horses became restless around him sometimes now. Certain ones pulled away from his touch unexpectedly. His father noticed it too.
“You’re distracted lately,” he muttered one morning while repairing fence wire.
“Just tired.”
“You always say that now.”
Fabrizio avoided eye contact.
Because shame had already begun settling inside him.
Not overwhelming shame yet.
Just enough to recognize he was slipping somewhere dangerous.
But every time he considered stopping, the grief returned full force.
And suddenly sobriety felt impossible.
One rainy evening Fabrizio sat alone beside the river again holding a cigarette in one hand and pills in the other.
The same river where he and Arka used to laugh until sunrise.
The same river where they planned futures together.
Now he barely recognized himself sitting there.
His reflection in the dark water looked exhausted. Hollow-eyed. Older somehow.
For a moment he imagined Arka seeing him now.
Would he feel guilty?
Angry?
Heartbroken?
Would he even care anymore?
That thought hurt worst of all.
So Fabrizio swallowed another pill quickly before thinking too hard.
Rain began falling softly across the river around him while numbness slowly spread through his veins again.
And somewhere far away inside himself, the boy who once loved horses and open skies more than anything quietly began disappearing.
- Writer
