The Home that Meth Destroyed
As Louis and I walked down Great Eastern Highway, we were chatting about various things and taking in the sights of Midland. What is the dividing line between fiction and non-fiction? How could ‘STY SRG’ possibly represent Stay Strong? What was this building we were walking past? Through this conversation interrupting building’s fence we saw a house. Door broken outwards, contents vomited into the open from within, but with surprisingly well maintained outward features. We walked to it, and when we realised the cars parked around it were more likely taking advantage of the free parking then conveying people to this enticing building, we decided to explore.
The backyard was a juxtaposition of well chosen vines, flowers and trees enclosing a pile of household contents that were piled up out the back. In short, without the rubbish dump, it could have been quite pleasant. What had happened here? Looking inside through the open back door, I couldn't help but imagine behind every partially closed door was a community of squatters with nothing but murderous disdain for curious visitors. Eventually Louis provoked my entrance when he saw a Vinyl cover on the ground. Was the record in it? No. The case then, presumably no longer served a purpose.
This house too, was now void. More properly described as a mere building, it protected only junk and mystique. Every room promised excitement and treasures, but the closest thing to physical bounty was two tapes, one of Ally McBeal songs, and the other a mix tape. However, this house did hold some treasures for us. In the front rooms we noticed elaborate tales scribbled on the walls. They documented a relationship falling apart, the existence of drug habits, and the struggle of the writer or writers to comprehend what they were confronted with.
Having been captured by all the talk that we live in ‘Meth City’ during an ‘Ice Age’, I made the baseless leap that this writing captured the latter parts of the destruction of the lives of the people who once called this place their home. As their ice habits took hold, they grew apart. They took to writing abuse on the walls; fooling themselves into thinking this would help their relationship. What was the next unsupported chapter in this heartbreaking tale? Emotionally and financially destitute, the owners abandoned their material life in search of their next hit. Squatters moved into the house and vagabonds decided it would be funny to throw everything within, without.
This house with suggestion of recent renovation, Foxtel dish, and new air conditioners that now lay in pieces was now nothing more than another victim in the ice scourge, evidence of the destruction of the drug. This house could have belonged to you or I. These destroyed lives could be those of our friends and family. This tale becomes just another anecdote in the meta-narrative of the destructive power of Ice. Please, readers: don’t do drugs, and don’t let this become you!