A look around n take in this wee room before us. It’s still blurry under the harsh halogen lamps. It’s a wee anteroom. There’s pipes n tubes runnin aw over the place. It’s some kind ae storage room. The night it’s been converted intae a gouch couch. It’s a place ae sanctuary fur cunts like me who huv taken a bad wan on drugs. There’s paramedics in the corner, green uniforms n a big red bag n stretcher. The rest ir the volunteers in red fleeces. The casualties ir varied. There’s a guy sittin wae his burd. He’s oot it, sittin lickin his lips, but she’s far gone. Hur heed is in hur hands n she’s being sick in a basin. The two ae them ir boggin. In fact, we aw ir. Almost up tae the knees, everyone is covered in pure rave muck. Ma eld Lacoste trainers ir fucked, pure mockit. The lassies ir still sittin in their tutus n multicoloured dresses n taps, some wae wee shorts or hotpants on. Their legs ir filthy up tae the shins. The looks on these young cunts’ faces ir horrible. A try no tae look at them cos they’re geein me the fear. The early charm ae seein cunts wae big pupils n smiles hus long faded. We’re aw stuck wae these feelings until our systems work the substances oot. It’s a long process when yir feelin like this. Yi feel like yi could die n the thoughts in yir brain disconnect fae that previous sacred life yi hud. If yi went tonight, yi wid go thinkin a lot ae nonsense, sweatin n wishin fur things lost – that forgotten paradise ae the normal. The everyday mundane, that beautiful fuckin boredom n family shite.

Me n ma new pal Emma ir sittin sharin the packet ae nuts n sippin water. Faces twisted n unhuman wae drugs. A think fur a moment if A’ve said that awready or just thought it but A cannae be sure. This hour has finally slowed. It’s half three. There’s two n a half hour left. A know Ferry Corsten wull be on soon but A still cannae remember if A’m at the Braeheed Arena or Ingliston. A honestly dunno where the fuck A’m ir. Aw time n space drift away fae me n A’m Y T FUCKIN P. The gang, the battle. They’re aw here somewhere but A’m marooned on this desert island. Robinson Crusoe. Gennaro Gattuso. Rangers Football Club. Take me home, somecunt. Back tae the island. Country Roads. Jungle Run. Fun House. Move it, fitbaw heed. Hey fuckin Arnold. Haw! Lavi heed, you’re gettin it!

The ecstasy is calmin doon. The wallop ae those four pills knocked me fur six. Yi feel close tae death when yir like this. Feelins ae paranoia n fear n pure confusion n repetition. Yir heart is constantly beatin hard n fast. Yi start hearin it, like a bongo drum in your hollow chest. Yi feel physically empty inside. Just a vacant shell wae a void where yir internal organs should be. Yi try not tae think how they work at moments like this or even the fact that you’ve got any n ir basically a skin machine. Yi scare yirsel wae thoughts like that. Yir brain is racin, thoughts sparkin like electricity meetin water. Even thinkin that yi huv a brain in yir skull is a mad thought the noo. Class As ir strange n send yir thoughts on a weird fuckin journey through yir consciousness. Ma wee gouch couch pal Emma glances over tae me n kisses ma cheek, bringin me back tae humanity, sexuality n feelings ae love, family n security, a future n a life. Life, beautiful life. Choose life? That kiss saves me. Choose love. A try tae smile at hur but A’m still fleein n A just put ma arm roon hur n stare at ma boggin trainers n the floor.