Bad Teeth & Cleverness

The hassle of having to score in the suburbs is over. I met Sylvain this afternoon and he informed me that D was holding. That’s good news as D is only five minutes from me and he will usually come to the appartment. Sylvain is one of these junkies that is always cursing heroin and constantly talking of rehabilitation. Apart from detox and the size of bags he has no view on anything else. He is of the type that will sit on the fence until they keel over and fall to one side or the other. They let death choose their life, whereas I let life choose my death.

I first met Sylvain nearly 3 years ago at The Hôtel Dieu – the city’s main substitution unit. He was quite handsome then, but he has changed drastically since. Now He is sallow & withdrawn. His clothes are filthy and torn and he has absesses all over his hands. His mouth looks like a clenched anus that is trying to suck all his features in. At one point during our brief conversation he tipped his head back and bellowed, displaying the rotten contents of his mouth. It reminded me of a dank, wet dungeon.... his teeth the remnants of a broken and rusted portcullis. I think I caught sight of only one whole tooth, mostly they were just black specks in lumpy puss filled gums.

Unlike me, Sylvain has no pride, neither is he out to deceive. He seems eagar to show the diseased existence of years of heroin abuse... to force all the vileness of addiction in your direction. I suppose Sylvain's body is his work of art.... it’s his expression. I understand that more than I may let on.