Pray to God he hears you
I went to Vangvieng a few days ago. I didn't know how to write about an event that occurred when I was there so I decided to put it into a story format. It's broken into two parts and I haven't finished the 2nd part yet. I call this the 'that time I saved that dude's life' story.
Title: Pray to God he hears you
Type: Non-fiction, travel writing
Rating: R
Word Count: 4191
Warning: illegal drugs, lots of blood and vomit, someone almost dies, etc (also not beta'ed and might have weird formatting because computers in Laos... well....)
A personal inventory reveals skinned knees, bruises on your arms and legs, blood, and vomit on your legs and feet. You’re not a doctor, you’re not a nurse, you’re not an EMT- you’re a girl in Laos for the funeral of the uncle you were closest to and somehow you’ve found yourself in Vangvieng for a few days of vacation afterward.
Vangvieng is Cancun and Amsterdam’s bastard lovechild. Originally an ecotourism destination for caving and inter-tubing, it has quickly become over run with a lower class of people. Normally you would not judge as people can live whatever life style they choose, but this is unacceptable. Laos is a quiet country and her people are the face of kindness and respect. Local customs should be obeyed and there are signs reminding tourists to do so but they are ignored. Women walk the streets in bikinis, there are bars blaring loud music across from temples, packs of frat boys drunkenly roam the streets, and illegal drugs are everywhere. It disgusts you that the foreigners who are here can blatantly disrespect a culture like this. You came for four days but you are leaving after one.
One day, one minute, one chance happenstance is long enough to make a difference in someones life. You begin to think of everything that has occurred before this moment in your life and the lives of others to bring you to where you are now. You didn’t get into graduate school and found yourself in Seattle training to become an Air Traffic Controller. Training complete, you wait for the government to give you an elusive training date. If you were in graduate school or already training, you wouldn’t have made thistrip. But maybe it goes further back than that, to Atlanta where you’ve had a fight with your best friend and have decided the South holds nothing for you anymore. Perhaps it begins six years ago when your Uncle chose to move back to Laos. Maybe it goes back to 1985 when your parents met or even back to the 1970s when the restaurant they met at was built. You don’t know what set this series of events into action, but somehow tonight you are poised to be the only person who can save someones life.
At first all you hear is screaming, a mixture of song lyrics and gibberish, from the alley leading to the hotel next to the internet cafe you are sitting outside of. You’ve drunk too much at the bar with your cousins and are eating a crepe filled with nutella and bananas. As the salty and sweet flavors combine in your mojito stained mouth you see a boy who looks like a Ralph Lauren model run from the alley. His eyes are large and he looks terrified as his British voice yells for a hospital or a doctor. You stare at him as you take another bite of your crepe, chocolate and banana exploding on your tongue. Standing, you take a few steps and stare around the corner into the alley. There’s a short, blond boy on his hands and knees, vomiting water and bile. His shoulders are shaking but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s heaving or crying. A small crowd has gathered, but he’s not the one they’re looking at.
Sighing, you scrape the nutella off your crepe and leave the rest for the stray dog that has been sitting at your feet. He’s covered in scars and is too scared to look you in the eyes as he gently takes the food you offer him. You’re only here until the next day but you’ll search for this dog and make sure he eats in the morning as well give him a dose of the flea medication you bring when you travel. You think of your dogs back home. They have beds, two meals a day, doctors when they are sick, coats and blankets when they are cold, toys to play with, treats, bones, and even Sara Lee pound cake when Grandma comes to visit. You saved them both, one from a hoarder and one from death row. You can’t save this poor flea infested mutt who follows in your shadow but you can spare him a rare bit of kindness.
“There is no hospital,” you tell the boy who looks like a model. “The closest is in Vientiane. It’s 5 hours of unpaved roads over the mountain at night. I wouldn’t risk it.”
“Is there a doctor?” He’s wearing a black polo, khaki shorts, and couldn’t look more out of place in Vangvieng if he tried. “My friend is sick, they told me there is a doctor.”
“That doctor will lock your friend in a dark room until his trip passes and then call the police.”
Drugs are illegal but easily obtainable from every restaurant and bar. You explain this to him: they pay the police a bribe so they can see the drugs and later the police will arrest and hold a few foreigners until they pay a bribe or fine. Everyone makes more money that way. Nothing is regulated. This is evident as you watch the boy everyone is looking at. He doesn’t stop speaking as he struggles against the two men restraining him. Random words, lyrics, and occasionally screams come from his mouth. His arms and bare torso are covered in scratches and blood, his legs are scraped and bleeding from falling to the pavement. There are good trips and there are bad trips. This is a bad trip.
Introducing yourself to him, Chris, you explain you have first aid and emergency response training. You’ve never dealt with this particular medical emergency, you’re drunk, and way out of your comfort zone. How easy would it be to walk away from this scene and pretend like you didn’t know what to do? You’d read about another westerner dying in Vangvieng but so what, it happens all the time. He knew the risk when he ate those mushrooms and now he’s paying for it. No, you’re not that type of person. Tonight you’re not a girl here for a funeral mourning a death, tonight you are a girl here to save someones life.
Thrusting your purse at Chris, you tie your hair back while demanding symptoms, a timeline, and everything the boy has consumed. It’s been four hours since he’s eaten a mushroom pizza and started clawing at himself. They tried to lock him in a dark room but he tried to hang himself using the bedsheets. The hotel staff won’t let them back into the hotel. He needs to drink water and vomit, but he spits out any water they get into his mouth. Chris doesn’t know what type of mushroom his friend ate, but everyone watching is of the opinion he’s accidentally consumed a poisonous one as well. The world is unusually bright and spinning around you from the alcohol as you prioritize, triage, what needs to be done. The boy starts to sing a bad rap song and you snap at him, telling him if he’s going to be a jute box, he’s going to sing what you want because you’re in charge now. This startles him long enough to him to stare at you. His face his puffy and littered among the scratches and cuts on his skin are hives. He’s having an allergic reaction to the mushrooms. You don’t think it can get any worse until he starts to sing Judas. Turning, you tell Chris you need chopsticks, water, a soda, salt, and vodka. You make him repeat the list to you three times to make sure he understands before you let him leave.
The boy has collapsed to the cement driveway again and his restrainers let him go. He’s done this a few times. He will stand up, try to run to the river, but they hold him back until eventually his legs give out. It takes a third person to make sure his head doesn’t smash into the pavement. He rolls around screaming for God to help him before eventually going still for a moment before the cycle repeats itself. You wait for Chris to return with the chopsticks and for the boy to go still before slowly approaching him and kneeling next to him.
“Hello, hello. What do we have here?” His eyes are glazed and large as he grins at you.
“Hello, my name is Nora. Can you tell me your name?”
He tells you that’s a weird name for someone like you; you don’t know what that is supposed to mean. His name is Matthew, he is from London, he supports QPR, and he is on holiday with his friends. He seems drunk right now but you know he’ll go back into his hallucinations soon. He’s having a hard time speaking- he needs an epinephrine shot or something but there isn’t one for over a hundred miles. When you ask him if he knows where he is, he tells you he’s in hell and surrounded by demons. He tells you he’s on fire and his attempts to get to the river and his frantic rolling around on the ground make sense- he’s trying to put himself out. In a quiet voice, he tells you not to talk to any of the demons because they’ll light you on fire. When you ask him if he thinks you’re a demon, he smiles vacantly and shakes his head no.
“Matthew, I need you to lay down on your back for me,” you tell him, holding his head and helping him lay flat. He propositions you, makes a crack about never having sex in hell, and you just smile at him. “Let me tell you about QPR’s game against City a few days ago.”
His eyes are wide and he is with you as you recount the game to him while surveying his injuries. He agrees with you that SWP was a good purchase for the club but that Joey Barton is a stupid twat. Flicking his wrist, he doesn’t wince- it’s swollen, but you think it’s just sprained and not broken. Matthew’s not upset to learn his team lost to City because it was a close game. As you check his cuts and see how bad his hives are, he asks you if QPR is better than United because there was a closer scoreline when they played City. You just laugh. You’ve gained his trust now and he tells you he’s scared he’s going to die and be stuck in hell forever. He’s beginning to sing again. You keep gently slapping his face so he stays with you.
“Matthew, I can take you away from hell, but you have to open your mouth for me.”
When he complies, you take the chopsticks and shove them down his throat, rotating them so you hit every possible spot in the back of his throat. His hand comes up and tightly grabs your upper arm but you don’t pull away. It hurts- he’s strong but you grit your teeth and keep pressing. He’s gagging and choking on the chopsticks. You feel him struggling to breathe as his chest begins to to heave. You don’t pull back until you feel his throat constrict and a torrent of vomit spews from his mouth. Rolling him on his side, satisfaction comes onto your face as you see part of his dinner on the ground. Most of it is already further along in his digestive tract but even getting a little out helps.
Taking the water from Chris, you tell Matthew he needs to drink water to put the fire out. At first he refuses but you manage to reason with him that water is the only way to put the fire out. He only drinks a little before he is gone, lyrics to Bad Romances echoing off the walls of the alley mixed with some prayers you vaguely remember hearing others say. You use some of the water to clean your hands off- they’re covered in dirt, blood, and vomit. There are no towels, so you use your hand to clean his face off. He springs to his feet again and the men are there to restrain him. Sighing, you rise and take the Coke and salt from Chris. Popping the top off the soda, you take a swig before dumping the salt in and swirling it.
“We need to wait for him to come back down before we can help him.” You tell Chris.
“Are you bleeding?”
Looking down, you see blood on your upper arm from where Matthew grabbed you in his fight for air. It’s not your blood- Matthew’s clawed at himself so hard his fingernails have split open. Wiping the blood away, you turn your attention to the blood who is sitting in a chair. The hotel keeper’s daughter is sitting next to him to make sure he doesn’t fall. She can’t be more than 15 but she knows enough to keep him awake and try to get him to drink water. You think she’s the bigger victim than these two boys. They’ll recover and leave while she’ll live this cycle for the rest of her life.
This boy’s name is Tom and he’s from Ireland. You hand him the can of Coke and tell him to drink it, spouting off facts about electrolytes, dehydration, and enough big words to where he drinks just to shut you up. The water follows and he drinks a few mouthfuls before handing it back to you.
“Is this real?” He asks you; he sounds like a child.
“Are you, an Irishman, on vacation with a group of Brits in Laos, tripping on a bad mushroom, while an American is helping you?” He stares at you, eyes glazed and confused. “Yes this is real. On a scale from 1 to 100, where are you?”
“70 maybe 80.”
“What do you see?”
“I’m here, I see all of this, but I’m not in my body. I can’t feel it.”
You reach for his hand and interlace your fingers with his. He turns to look at you and you wonder what he sees. Squeezing his hand, he finally looks away, down at your hands, and squeezes back.
“Never again.” He closes his eyes. “I’m not going to get worse, am I? I don’t want to go back.” His eyes open and take in Matthew rolling on the ground, screaming for God to help him. “I’m not going to be like him, am I?”
"I don't know
“Is he going to die?”
You consider this. If it’s true, if he’s eaten poisoned as well as magic mushrooms, there is a good chance Matthew will die. He’s having an allergic reaction as well but you can’t give him medication for it until you’re sure he won’t vomit again. There’s only one dose and if he vomits it up his throat will swell shut and he will suffocate.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you stay with us?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Tom wants to know why he’s having a bad reaction and why Matthew’s is worse. He’s full of questions about why you’re making him drink so much, why the people in movies have a good time on mushrooms when he isn’t and why they sell mushrooms if they’re illegal. You patiently answer his questions while instructing Chris on how to get Matthew to drink. It’s not easy- Matthew is speaking too fast and in his brief moments of clarity, he is too confused to drink and spits the water back out. He’s spent most of the time you’ve been sitting with Tom on the ground. There’s a blanket on him right now as he’s started to shake but you don’t know if it’s drug or poison related. When someone gets too close, he starts to scream and lashes out. Matthew thinks he’s in hell and everyone in a demon. Everyone except you.
Chris comes back with another Coke. Tom’s told you Chris is the worrier of the group and you tell him as much.
“What lies have you been telling mate?”
An hour earlier you would have been charmed by his accent and colloquialisms. An hour ago you were drunk and a girl on vacation. That hour has passed. You’re sober and covered in blood and vomit. You can’t be human because humans are flawed. You have to find a way to be something else or they’ll see your fear and uncertainty.
“I’M SORRY!”
Matthew is curled into the fetal position on the ground, shoulders shaking as he cries. The men move to grab his arms and restrain him as he resumes shredding his skin. Chris excuses himself to use the restroom. You saw his hand fly to his mouth earlier and you know he’s going to throw up. Sometimes reality can be harsh.
“It’s good the locals know what to do.” Tom says. “They’re accustomed to it.”
“Good?” You can’t keep the spite out of your voice.
“Yeah, they know to bring water and hold him down. It’s good.”
“There are parts of the world where kids are accustomed to hearing gunfire in public. What would you do if someone shot a gun right here right now?”
He thinks about it for a second. “I’d be scared.”
“Is is right for those children to be desensitized to it?” He shakes his head. “It’s not good that these people know what to do because it shouldn’t happen.”
You know you sound angry and like a bitch. Forcing your morals onto others is your worst trait but tonight you don’t care.
“I’ll never do it again,” he tells you. “Drugs, I’ll never do any again. I don’t want to feel like this again.”
You nod but you don’t believe him. The only sound in the alley comes from the bars and the echo of Matthew alternating between singing and crying. Chris eventually comes back and quietly thanks you. You don’t really have anything to say to him. Words feel cheap and unnecessary tonight as you watch Matthew cry out for a God you’re not sure exists.
Tom squeezes your hand and a whimper comes from his mouth. He shoots forward and vomits water and coke. It splashes on your feet and legs, hot and sticky. You stand and rub his back with your free hand, telling him it’s going to be okay. Handing him the coke, you make him finish the can as well as a full cup of water. When he asks you why he has to drink so much, you re-explain the dangers of dehydration as well as tell him he needs to urinate the help rid his body of the drugs. He’s 90% with you now, almost out of it, but you need him to stay awake for another hour or so to make sure he doesn’t vomit again. He wants to sleep but you ask him if he wants his headstone to read ‘Here lies Tom who choked to death on his own vomit’. He shakes his head no.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you think it’s quieter than it has been and realize Matthew has stopped singing. He’s laying on his back, staring up at the sky, silent words moving across his lips. You recognize the movements- he’s repeating Hail Marys. It seems that people only turn to religion in their darkest hours. The hives are spreading to his legs, there’s a gash above his eyebrow that his heavily bleeding, and he’s already covered in gashes and dirt. He looks terrifying. His face has swollen more and you wonder if his words are silent because he’s no longer able to speak. One of the men has dumped a bucket of water on him after he peed himself. He’s lying in a puddle of his own blood, piss, and vomit. A pavement deathbed.
Standing, you take a few steps but Tom pulls you back. He begs you not to leave him but you slowly, gently, tell him you need to help Matthew now because Matthew is in danger. Tom doesn’t really understand, but allows you to let go of his hand. Taking the few steps to stand over Matthew, he looks up at you and his mouth stops moving. His arm leaves the pavement as he reaches for you, says your name, and asks you to help him. His hands are shaking. You calmly ask for Chris to grab the pink pouch out of your bag. He hands it to you and you locate the Benadryl you bring with you for your allergies. You’re only supposed to take one at a time but you’ll gamble two; if he had too much poison he’ll die anyway. You don’t think it’s safe to try to make him swallow the pills, so you pull them apart over his mouth and watch the powder fall in. The bitter taste doesn’t register on his tongue. You wait a minute before asking him to take a drink. He drinks for you and the medicine goes down his throat.
“What now?” Tom asks; he’s not looking at his friend, but off in the distance.
“We wait.”
You don’t wait for very long. After ten or fifteen minutes the smallest hives start to disappear, no new hives have popped up, and the swelling goes down. He’s still out of his mind, but his eyes are shutting and sleep is close. Eventually he collapses and stops moving. Your hand is on his neck, checking for a pulse, and you nod at Chris with a tight smile as you find it, not as strong as you’d like, but steady. If there was poison, it’s already worked through his system or wasn’t strong enough to kill him. Maybe God was looking out for him.
The owner of the hotel brings you a bucket of warm water and soap. This is when you take inventory of yourself, to make sure you came through the night unscathed. You’ll bruise and maybe have a few cuts, but the blood and vomit will wash away. The memories of what happened never will. You ask for another bucket of water and Chris helps you rinse Matthew off before the men carry him inside. A trail of pink drops follows them, a mixture of blood and water. You clean yourself off. The sour smell of vomit and the iron smell of blood is burned in your senses. When you are done, you help Tom wash the vomit off of himself. It’s hard to help someone when they won’t let go of your hand. Taking the bucket, you dump what’s left of the water on the mess Matthew made to help wash it away.
Grabbing the bottle of vodka from where it has sat untouched on a chair all night, you hold Tom’s hand as you lead him inside to his room. You leave the bucket by his bed and prop a pillow behind him so he is forced to sleep on his side. Once he is in bed, he cannot stay awake. His grip on your hand lessens and you smooth the hair back from his face and press a kiss to his temple. He smiles up at you and his eyes close.
Chris is watching you from the doorway and leads you to the room he’s sharing with Matthew. His eyes are shut, his mouth open, and he is drooling. You’d laugh if you could find the energy or the humor. Wetting a towel in the bathroom, you wipe as much blood away as you can. Using the tissues in your purse, you soak them in vodka before putting them on his cuts. Even in his drug addled sleep, he feels pain and jerks away from you. Chris holds him down and you make sure every cut is cleaned with vodka. You take extra care with his torn fingers, wrapped them in your now torn bandana. It smells like a frat party but looks like a scene out of a war movie. Once you are done, you prop him on his side and place the bucket the maid has left close the to the bed. You ask the God you're not sure exists to keep Matthew alive through the night.
Tearing a sheet from the notebook you bring everywhere, you write the name of your hotel and your room number down. Handing it to Chris, you leave him another pill to give to Matthew if the swelling comes back and tell him to get you if anything else happens. His eyes are red and you realize he’s been crying. When he thanks you again, you think no one has ever looked at you the way he’s looking at you, as if you’ve done something important. You’re not sure you deserve it. You came to Laos because of death; you don’t want to leave knowing you could have prevented another. It's more selfish than anything else. He shakes you hand and you smile politely before leaving.
It’s one in the morning when your cousins find you sitting outside of an Internet cafe in Vangvieng, sharing a crepe with a dog who runs away as soon as they sit next to you. But unlike when you left them, you smell of death, of hell. When they ask you where you’ve been doing, you say ‘nothing’ with a vacant smile on your face.
Title: Pray to God he hears you
Type: Non-fiction, travel writing
Rating: R
Word Count: 4191
Warning: illegal drugs, lots of blood and vomit, someone almost dies, etc (also not beta'ed and might have weird formatting because computers in Laos... well....)
A personal inventory reveals skinned knees, bruises on your arms and legs, blood, and vomit on your legs and feet. You’re not a doctor, you’re not a nurse, you’re not an EMT- you’re a girl in Laos for the funeral of the uncle you were closest to and somehow you’ve found yourself in Vangvieng for a few days of vacation afterward.
Vangvieng is Cancun and Amsterdam’s bastard lovechild. Originally an ecotourism destination for caving and inter-tubing, it has quickly become over run with a lower class of people. Normally you would not judge as people can live whatever life style they choose, but this is unacceptable. Laos is a quiet country and her people are the face of kindness and respect. Local customs should be obeyed and there are signs reminding tourists to do so but they are ignored. Women walk the streets in bikinis, there are bars blaring loud music across from temples, packs of frat boys drunkenly roam the streets, and illegal drugs are everywhere. It disgusts you that the foreigners who are here can blatantly disrespect a culture like this. You came for four days but you are leaving after one.
One day, one minute, one chance happenstance is long enough to make a difference in someones life. You begin to think of everything that has occurred before this moment in your life and the lives of others to bring you to where you are now. You didn’t get into graduate school and found yourself in Seattle training to become an Air Traffic Controller. Training complete, you wait for the government to give you an elusive training date. If you were in graduate school or already training, you wouldn’t have made thistrip. But maybe it goes further back than that, to Atlanta where you’ve had a fight with your best friend and have decided the South holds nothing for you anymore. Perhaps it begins six years ago when your Uncle chose to move back to Laos. Maybe it goes back to 1985 when your parents met or even back to the 1970s when the restaurant they met at was built. You don’t know what set this series of events into action, but somehow tonight you are poised to be the only person who can save someones life.
At first all you hear is screaming, a mixture of song lyrics and gibberish, from the alley leading to the hotel next to the internet cafe you are sitting outside of. You’ve drunk too much at the bar with your cousins and are eating a crepe filled with nutella and bananas. As the salty and sweet flavors combine in your mojito stained mouth you see a boy who looks like a Ralph Lauren model run from the alley. His eyes are large and he looks terrified as his British voice yells for a hospital or a doctor. You stare at him as you take another bite of your crepe, chocolate and banana exploding on your tongue. Standing, you take a few steps and stare around the corner into the alley. There’s a short, blond boy on his hands and knees, vomiting water and bile. His shoulders are shaking but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s heaving or crying. A small crowd has gathered, but he’s not the one they’re looking at.
Sighing, you scrape the nutella off your crepe and leave the rest for the stray dog that has been sitting at your feet. He’s covered in scars and is too scared to look you in the eyes as he gently takes the food you offer him. You’re only here until the next day but you’ll search for this dog and make sure he eats in the morning as well give him a dose of the flea medication you bring when you travel. You think of your dogs back home. They have beds, two meals a day, doctors when they are sick, coats and blankets when they are cold, toys to play with, treats, bones, and even Sara Lee pound cake when Grandma comes to visit. You saved them both, one from a hoarder and one from death row. You can’t save this poor flea infested mutt who follows in your shadow but you can spare him a rare bit of kindness.
“There is no hospital,” you tell the boy who looks like a model. “The closest is in Vientiane. It’s 5 hours of unpaved roads over the mountain at night. I wouldn’t risk it.”
“Is there a doctor?” He’s wearing a black polo, khaki shorts, and couldn’t look more out of place in Vangvieng if he tried. “My friend is sick, they told me there is a doctor.”
“That doctor will lock your friend in a dark room until his trip passes and then call the police.”
Drugs are illegal but easily obtainable from every restaurant and bar. You explain this to him: they pay the police a bribe so they can see the drugs and later the police will arrest and hold a few foreigners until they pay a bribe or fine. Everyone makes more money that way. Nothing is regulated. This is evident as you watch the boy everyone is looking at. He doesn’t stop speaking as he struggles against the two men restraining him. Random words, lyrics, and occasionally screams come from his mouth. His arms and bare torso are covered in scratches and blood, his legs are scraped and bleeding from falling to the pavement. There are good trips and there are bad trips. This is a bad trip.
Introducing yourself to him, Chris, you explain you have first aid and emergency response training. You’ve never dealt with this particular medical emergency, you’re drunk, and way out of your comfort zone. How easy would it be to walk away from this scene and pretend like you didn’t know what to do? You’d read about another westerner dying in Vangvieng but so what, it happens all the time. He knew the risk when he ate those mushrooms and now he’s paying for it. No, you’re not that type of person. Tonight you’re not a girl here for a funeral mourning a death, tonight you are a girl here to save someones life.
Thrusting your purse at Chris, you tie your hair back while demanding symptoms, a timeline, and everything the boy has consumed. It’s been four hours since he’s eaten a mushroom pizza and started clawing at himself. They tried to lock him in a dark room but he tried to hang himself using the bedsheets. The hotel staff won’t let them back into the hotel. He needs to drink water and vomit, but he spits out any water they get into his mouth. Chris doesn’t know what type of mushroom his friend ate, but everyone watching is of the opinion he’s accidentally consumed a poisonous one as well. The world is unusually bright and spinning around you from the alcohol as you prioritize, triage, what needs to be done. The boy starts to sing a bad rap song and you snap at him, telling him if he’s going to be a jute box, he’s going to sing what you want because you’re in charge now. This startles him long enough to him to stare at you. His face his puffy and littered among the scratches and cuts on his skin are hives. He’s having an allergic reaction to the mushrooms. You don’t think it can get any worse until he starts to sing Judas. Turning, you tell Chris you need chopsticks, water, a soda, salt, and vodka. You make him repeat the list to you three times to make sure he understands before you let him leave.
The boy has collapsed to the cement driveway again and his restrainers let him go. He’s done this a few times. He will stand up, try to run to the river, but they hold him back until eventually his legs give out. It takes a third person to make sure his head doesn’t smash into the pavement. He rolls around screaming for God to help him before eventually going still for a moment before the cycle repeats itself. You wait for Chris to return with the chopsticks and for the boy to go still before slowly approaching him and kneeling next to him.
“Hello, hello. What do we have here?” His eyes are glazed and large as he grins at you.
“Hello, my name is Nora. Can you tell me your name?”
He tells you that’s a weird name for someone like you; you don’t know what that is supposed to mean. His name is Matthew, he is from London, he supports QPR, and he is on holiday with his friends. He seems drunk right now but you know he’ll go back into his hallucinations soon. He’s having a hard time speaking- he needs an epinephrine shot or something but there isn’t one for over a hundred miles. When you ask him if he knows where he is, he tells you he’s in hell and surrounded by demons. He tells you he’s on fire and his attempts to get to the river and his frantic rolling around on the ground make sense- he’s trying to put himself out. In a quiet voice, he tells you not to talk to any of the demons because they’ll light you on fire. When you ask him if he thinks you’re a demon, he smiles vacantly and shakes his head no.
“Matthew, I need you to lay down on your back for me,” you tell him, holding his head and helping him lay flat. He propositions you, makes a crack about never having sex in hell, and you just smile at him. “Let me tell you about QPR’s game against City a few days ago.”
His eyes are wide and he is with you as you recount the game to him while surveying his injuries. He agrees with you that SWP was a good purchase for the club but that Joey Barton is a stupid twat. Flicking his wrist, he doesn’t wince- it’s swollen, but you think it’s just sprained and not broken. Matthew’s not upset to learn his team lost to City because it was a close game. As you check his cuts and see how bad his hives are, he asks you if QPR is better than United because there was a closer scoreline when they played City. You just laugh. You’ve gained his trust now and he tells you he’s scared he’s going to die and be stuck in hell forever. He’s beginning to sing again. You keep gently slapping his face so he stays with you.
“Matthew, I can take you away from hell, but you have to open your mouth for me.”
When he complies, you take the chopsticks and shove them down his throat, rotating them so you hit every possible spot in the back of his throat. His hand comes up and tightly grabs your upper arm but you don’t pull away. It hurts- he’s strong but you grit your teeth and keep pressing. He’s gagging and choking on the chopsticks. You feel him struggling to breathe as his chest begins to to heave. You don’t pull back until you feel his throat constrict and a torrent of vomit spews from his mouth. Rolling him on his side, satisfaction comes onto your face as you see part of his dinner on the ground. Most of it is already further along in his digestive tract but even getting a little out helps.
Taking the water from Chris, you tell Matthew he needs to drink water to put the fire out. At first he refuses but you manage to reason with him that water is the only way to put the fire out. He only drinks a little before he is gone, lyrics to Bad Romances echoing off the walls of the alley mixed with some prayers you vaguely remember hearing others say. You use some of the water to clean your hands off- they’re covered in dirt, blood, and vomit. There are no towels, so you use your hand to clean his face off. He springs to his feet again and the men are there to restrain him. Sighing, you rise and take the Coke and salt from Chris. Popping the top off the soda, you take a swig before dumping the salt in and swirling it.
“We need to wait for him to come back down before we can help him.” You tell Chris.
“Are you bleeding?”
Looking down, you see blood on your upper arm from where Matthew grabbed you in his fight for air. It’s not your blood- Matthew’s clawed at himself so hard his fingernails have split open. Wiping the blood away, you turn your attention to the blood who is sitting in a chair. The hotel keeper’s daughter is sitting next to him to make sure he doesn’t fall. She can’t be more than 15 but she knows enough to keep him awake and try to get him to drink water. You think she’s the bigger victim than these two boys. They’ll recover and leave while she’ll live this cycle for the rest of her life.
This boy’s name is Tom and he’s from Ireland. You hand him the can of Coke and tell him to drink it, spouting off facts about electrolytes, dehydration, and enough big words to where he drinks just to shut you up. The water follows and he drinks a few mouthfuls before handing it back to you.
“Is this real?” He asks you; he sounds like a child.
“Are you, an Irishman, on vacation with a group of Brits in Laos, tripping on a bad mushroom, while an American is helping you?” He stares at you, eyes glazed and confused. “Yes this is real. On a scale from 1 to 100, where are you?”
“70 maybe 80.”
“What do you see?”
“I’m here, I see all of this, but I’m not in my body. I can’t feel it.”
You reach for his hand and interlace your fingers with his. He turns to look at you and you wonder what he sees. Squeezing his hand, he finally looks away, down at your hands, and squeezes back.
“Never again.” He closes his eyes. “I’m not going to get worse, am I? I don’t want to go back.” His eyes open and take in Matthew rolling on the ground, screaming for God to help him. “I’m not going to be like him, am I?”
"I don't know
“Is he going to die?”
You consider this. If it’s true, if he’s eaten poisoned as well as magic mushrooms, there is a good chance Matthew will die. He’s having an allergic reaction as well but you can’t give him medication for it until you’re sure he won’t vomit again. There’s only one dose and if he vomits it up his throat will swell shut and he will suffocate.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you stay with us?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Tom wants to know why he’s having a bad reaction and why Matthew’s is worse. He’s full of questions about why you’re making him drink so much, why the people in movies have a good time on mushrooms when he isn’t and why they sell mushrooms if they’re illegal. You patiently answer his questions while instructing Chris on how to get Matthew to drink. It’s not easy- Matthew is speaking too fast and in his brief moments of clarity, he is too confused to drink and spits the water back out. He’s spent most of the time you’ve been sitting with Tom on the ground. There’s a blanket on him right now as he’s started to shake but you don’t know if it’s drug or poison related. When someone gets too close, he starts to scream and lashes out. Matthew thinks he’s in hell and everyone in a demon. Everyone except you.
Chris comes back with another Coke. Tom’s told you Chris is the worrier of the group and you tell him as much.
“What lies have you been telling mate?”
An hour earlier you would have been charmed by his accent and colloquialisms. An hour ago you were drunk and a girl on vacation. That hour has passed. You’re sober and covered in blood and vomit. You can’t be human because humans are flawed. You have to find a way to be something else or they’ll see your fear and uncertainty.
“I’M SORRY!”
Matthew is curled into the fetal position on the ground, shoulders shaking as he cries. The men move to grab his arms and restrain him as he resumes shredding his skin. Chris excuses himself to use the restroom. You saw his hand fly to his mouth earlier and you know he’s going to throw up. Sometimes reality can be harsh.
“It’s good the locals know what to do.” Tom says. “They’re accustomed to it.”
“Good?” You can’t keep the spite out of your voice.
“Yeah, they know to bring water and hold him down. It’s good.”
“There are parts of the world where kids are accustomed to hearing gunfire in public. What would you do if someone shot a gun right here right now?”
He thinks about it for a second. “I’d be scared.”
“Is is right for those children to be desensitized to it?” He shakes his head. “It’s not good that these people know what to do because it shouldn’t happen.”
You know you sound angry and like a bitch. Forcing your morals onto others is your worst trait but tonight you don’t care.
“I’ll never do it again,” he tells you. “Drugs, I’ll never do any again. I don’t want to feel like this again.”
You nod but you don’t believe him. The only sound in the alley comes from the bars and the echo of Matthew alternating between singing and crying. Chris eventually comes back and quietly thanks you. You don’t really have anything to say to him. Words feel cheap and unnecessary tonight as you watch Matthew cry out for a God you’re not sure exists.
Tom squeezes your hand and a whimper comes from his mouth. He shoots forward and vomits water and coke. It splashes on your feet and legs, hot and sticky. You stand and rub his back with your free hand, telling him it’s going to be okay. Handing him the coke, you make him finish the can as well as a full cup of water. When he asks you why he has to drink so much, you re-explain the dangers of dehydration as well as tell him he needs to urinate the help rid his body of the drugs. He’s 90% with you now, almost out of it, but you need him to stay awake for another hour or so to make sure he doesn’t vomit again. He wants to sleep but you ask him if he wants his headstone to read ‘Here lies Tom who choked to death on his own vomit’. He shakes his head no.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you think it’s quieter than it has been and realize Matthew has stopped singing. He’s laying on his back, staring up at the sky, silent words moving across his lips. You recognize the movements- he’s repeating Hail Marys. It seems that people only turn to religion in their darkest hours. The hives are spreading to his legs, there’s a gash above his eyebrow that his heavily bleeding, and he’s already covered in gashes and dirt. He looks terrifying. His face has swollen more and you wonder if his words are silent because he’s no longer able to speak. One of the men has dumped a bucket of water on him after he peed himself. He’s lying in a puddle of his own blood, piss, and vomit. A pavement deathbed.
Standing, you take a few steps but Tom pulls you back. He begs you not to leave him but you slowly, gently, tell him you need to help Matthew now because Matthew is in danger. Tom doesn’t really understand, but allows you to let go of his hand. Taking the few steps to stand over Matthew, he looks up at you and his mouth stops moving. His arm leaves the pavement as he reaches for you, says your name, and asks you to help him. His hands are shaking. You calmly ask for Chris to grab the pink pouch out of your bag. He hands it to you and you locate the Benadryl you bring with you for your allergies. You’re only supposed to take one at a time but you’ll gamble two; if he had too much poison he’ll die anyway. You don’t think it’s safe to try to make him swallow the pills, so you pull them apart over his mouth and watch the powder fall in. The bitter taste doesn’t register on his tongue. You wait a minute before asking him to take a drink. He drinks for you and the medicine goes down his throat.
“What now?” Tom asks; he’s not looking at his friend, but off in the distance.
“We wait.”
You don’t wait for very long. After ten or fifteen minutes the smallest hives start to disappear, no new hives have popped up, and the swelling goes down. He’s still out of his mind, but his eyes are shutting and sleep is close. Eventually he collapses and stops moving. Your hand is on his neck, checking for a pulse, and you nod at Chris with a tight smile as you find it, not as strong as you’d like, but steady. If there was poison, it’s already worked through his system or wasn’t strong enough to kill him. Maybe God was looking out for him.
The owner of the hotel brings you a bucket of warm water and soap. This is when you take inventory of yourself, to make sure you came through the night unscathed. You’ll bruise and maybe have a few cuts, but the blood and vomit will wash away. The memories of what happened never will. You ask for another bucket of water and Chris helps you rinse Matthew off before the men carry him inside. A trail of pink drops follows them, a mixture of blood and water. You clean yourself off. The sour smell of vomit and the iron smell of blood is burned in your senses. When you are done, you help Tom wash the vomit off of himself. It’s hard to help someone when they won’t let go of your hand. Taking the bucket, you dump what’s left of the water on the mess Matthew made to help wash it away.
Grabbing the bottle of vodka from where it has sat untouched on a chair all night, you hold Tom’s hand as you lead him inside to his room. You leave the bucket by his bed and prop a pillow behind him so he is forced to sleep on his side. Once he is in bed, he cannot stay awake. His grip on your hand lessens and you smooth the hair back from his face and press a kiss to his temple. He smiles up at you and his eyes close.
Chris is watching you from the doorway and leads you to the room he’s sharing with Matthew. His eyes are shut, his mouth open, and he is drooling. You’d laugh if you could find the energy or the humor. Wetting a towel in the bathroom, you wipe as much blood away as you can. Using the tissues in your purse, you soak them in vodka before putting them on his cuts. Even in his drug addled sleep, he feels pain and jerks away from you. Chris holds him down and you make sure every cut is cleaned with vodka. You take extra care with his torn fingers, wrapped them in your now torn bandana. It smells like a frat party but looks like a scene out of a war movie. Once you are done, you prop him on his side and place the bucket the maid has left close the to the bed. You ask the God you're not sure exists to keep Matthew alive through the night.
Tearing a sheet from the notebook you bring everywhere, you write the name of your hotel and your room number down. Handing it to Chris, you leave him another pill to give to Matthew if the swelling comes back and tell him to get you if anything else happens. His eyes are red and you realize he’s been crying. When he thanks you again, you think no one has ever looked at you the way he’s looking at you, as if you’ve done something important. You’re not sure you deserve it. You came to Laos because of death; you don’t want to leave knowing you could have prevented another. It's more selfish than anything else. He shakes you hand and you smile politely before leaving.
It’s one in the morning when your cousins find you sitting outside of an Internet cafe in Vangvieng, sharing a crepe with a dog who runs away as soon as they sit next to you. But unlike when you left them, you smell of death, of hell. When they ask you where you’ve been doing, you say ‘nothing’ with a vacant smile on your face.