Words By Whittall

  The sweetest sound I ever heard. Not a “flick” or a “click” but more of a “blick” as Mark’s thumb moved across the spark wheel, igniting the butane lighter. All my senses came alive. I felt the warmth of the flame as he held it under the spoon, saw the pea-sized rock melt and bubble, smelled the precious vapour that ensued. The ritual sparked a seductive muscle memory: the roughness of the spark wheel, the way time stood still until rock transformed to liquid. I imagined myself inhaling the cloud, moving my face over it, hungrily, capturing as much of the drug as I could take in. Instinctively I moved forward. Despite his whole-body shakes, Mark deftly drew the liquid into a syringe and plunged it into his arm. I knew I should do something, anything other than watch and crave. I should call my husband. I should call an ambulance. I hesitated. Wanting. Remembering. I’d had two more stints in rehab in the past year and a half – although it was a stretch to call that spa in Switze