WARNING: SUBSTANCE ABUSE. ALLUSION TO SEX. ALLUSION TO GROOMING & SEXUAL VIOLENCE. MURDER. DEATH.
NOTE: This work is in no way attempting to normalize, romanticize, or advertise the use of drugs. Serena is not perfect. Serena is not to be admired or followed. Serena has other options.
If you ever feel yourself going down a similar path, or already are—please seek help. There are kind people out there who have gone through the same journey willing to help, and have made it their life's mission to do so. People care deeply, simply just off the basis of your struggle. Please contact your local Recovery Centre, Mental Health and Addiction Services, etc. Even just talking to a stranger might help.
As you are reading her descent into addiction, please remind yourself of the following:
1) Substance use never solves the root problem—at most, they mask it temporarily, if at all.
2) They can trap you in a cycle of dependence by artificially creating a false sense of relief.
3) Over time, it increases anxiety and depression, considerably harming mental health.
4) To add, they damage the brain's natural ability to regulate thoughts and emotions—sometimes permanently.
5) AS THEY DISTORT JUDGMENT, IT CAN LEAD TO IMPULSIVE AND DANGEROUS DECISIONS.
6) They affect the nervous system, heart, lungs, liver, etc.—ruining physical health. This can also be permanent.
7) Due to a wide array of factors—systemic, mental, physical, economic—addiction can make life even harder than before.
8) Socially, physically, emotionally, economically—they are not only expensive, but unsustainable. They often lead people into debt, and in turn illegal activities. This further fuels the cycle.
9) Due to the above, they rupture and weaken social connections with loved ones.
10) Last but not least—there are always healthier alternatives. If you cannot afford or access therapy and do not currently have a support system, you can try: exressing your creativity, exercising at your own pace to reclaim your body, and/or focus on self-growth.
———
NOTE: This work is not meant to push a certain 'political agenda'. The author, Farting_Cat, simply wishes to showcase the main character's DECLINING morale compass and personal conflict by using an allegory that pertains to real world events and phenomena. Serena's attitude, behaviour, and action(s) pertaining to this topic are simply a reflection of her fictional personhood. She is also not meant to be the most reliable narrator. Readers can disagree with a book's characters.
Farting__Cat is not Serena. She is not a reflection of the author's thoughts and beliefs. The Farting Cat simply likes to write realistic characters and pull from the real world for inspiration. To add, readers can disagree with Farting_Cat's narrative choices, as everyone is entitled to their own opinions.
Lastly, the author would like to clarify that they in no way endorse Serena's actions in the following chapters. Readers are encouraged to form their own independent opinion. Once again, Serena is not meant to be the most reliable narrator—nor is she a perfect person.
———
Over the next few months—the new cycle was a spiral, and it was accelerating. Partying once a week was now a need, weed and alcohol had become a gauze, and the wound beneath was festering, demanding a stronger anesthetic.
It was in the back room of a pulsing club, offered by a beauty, that she tried it. Cocaine. A line of sharp, white geometry. The high was nothing like the soft, forgiving blanket of weed. This was a lightning strike. It slammed into her machine, a jolt of pure, counterfeit divinity. The world sharpened into hyper-clarity, each sound a distinct note, each light a piercing star. In the back of her mind, she knew—this was it.
The music was softer, more private, low bass notes pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the surface of her skin. The walls glowed faintly blue from LED strips, the air shimmering with sweat, perfume, and the faint chemical tang of cocaine. Her laughter came too easily now, high and detached from any real amusement.
The man from the mirror had perfect teeth and the bored confidence of someone who'd done it a thousand times. He leaned close, his breath a gust of vodka and mint. His pupils were pinpricks of feverish light. He said something—along the lines was maybe her name, maybe not—and she nodded, though she hadn't heard a word.
They kissed like it was part of a ritual, a mechanical continuation of the line they'd just shared. Everything was sensation: the sting of where his stubble grazed her skin, the bitter taste of alcohol between their tongues, the electric hum under her ribs. Her body wasn't hers anymore; it was a circuit completing itself, current flowing from pulse to pulse. Hands on her skin. A wall against her back. The flicker of blue light on bare shoulders, on the arch of her legs. Someone laughed nearby—a sharp sound that cut through the haze like a flare—and then the beat swallowed it again. She moved because stillness felt impossible. The rhythm demanded motion, friction, or surrender. Her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest, each beat a plea or a dare. The world collapsed to rhythm and breath and heat. She wasn't Serena anymore. She was the pulse. The drug. The noise.
When it was over, she didn't remember pulling away, only the sudden cold of absence. The man's silhouette was already folding back outside into the crowd, another anonymous body in the strobing dark. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye as she reached for another line. Smudged lipstick, pupils blown wide, a glittering dust of powder across her cheekbone like stardust or ash. For a second, she almost laughed—because she looked radiant, or ruined—she couldn't tell the difference anymore.
In the morning, stumbling out, the city was a different planet. The cocaine was still conducting her nervous system, a frantic, buzzing energy with nowhere to go. Her thoughts raced, a thousand channels playing at once. She decided to walk home, to ride this electric current through the sleeping streets. She took a shortcut through a narrow alley, a vein of concrete between two sleeping giants. It was a mistake.
They emerged from the alley's mouth, not as individuals, but as a pack: four men, clad in a uniform of jackets and boots. One, the largest, had a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck. Another held a can of beer. They were blocking her way.
"Look what we got here," Neck-Tattoo slurred, his voice a gravelly thing.
Serena froze, the cocaine scream in her veins morphing into a different frequency. It was no longer euphoria.
"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be out all alone," another said, his eyes crawling over her body. "Might get into trouble."
She tried to step around them, her heart a machine gun. "Leave me alone."
A hand shot out, grabbing her arm. It was the one with the beer. His grip was like a vise. "We're just being friendly." His other hand, rough and calloused, groped her hip, a crude, violating press.
Something in Serena shattered.
The high didn't leave her; it curdled. The false power of the drug fused with a real fury that erupted from a place so deep within her it felt geological. It was the same rage that had made her claw her painting to shreds, the same visceral disgust that had made her vomit onto her own floor.
No, this was bigger.
This was not about a canvas—it was about her body, her life, the entire rotting world. Her inner monologue crashed, a cascade of vitriol and fire.
'His hand on me. Their faces. Stupid. Pig. All of them. It's all the same. The same fucking disease. And they touch me.'