in the addict colony
by Neil Randall
“It’s an unorthodox approach to addiction treatment,” said the Minister for the Interior. “I’m not sure anyone in our administration understands your methods or the true purposes of your programme.”
“Understanding is an overrated concept, Minister.” Professor Stojanovic came to a stop outside the first addiction booth on their tour of the facility. “For who can understand why an individual will consume so many intoxicants they suffer major organ failure, why they gorge themselves on various foodstuffs, only to stick their fingers down their throat seconds later, nor why a young person lacerates their forearms with a razor blade until they bleed so profusely they need to be rushed to an emergency room. Understanding is not what we’re about at the addict colony.”
“But to give patients access to the one thing that’s most damaging to them is tantamount to medical heresy, surely!”
“We only study, not treat, and certainly not cure or offer any kind of solution to their problems. Our firm belief is that when—and only when—the addict wants to leave their own personal addiction booths will their own personal treatment be over. Now, let us commence with our tour. Behold.”
Stojanovic beckoned the minister over to a high and wide rectangular window that looked in on a white-walled, cell-like space illumined by harsh overhead lighting. All the booth contained was a plank bed, table, chair, and television set. But it was undoubtedly the sight of a painfully skinny, almost naked young woman (she wore only basic bra and panties), with bruises up and down her arms and legs, crouched on the tiled floor, bent over almost double, repeatedly forcing two fingers down her throat which caught his attention. Even more so when the stricken addict, eyes clouded with tears and phlegm dangling from her chin, finally succeeding in making herself sick.
“This particular addict— and we call them addicts here at the institute, not patients or clients—has just concluded a particularly epic eating binge. Four hours, twelve minutes, and forty-eight seconds to be precise. Bulky carb-rich main meals, red meat, junk food, chocolate desserts, a whole host of cookies and candy bars. You see how violently she is vomiting now, the convulsions which wrack her wasted body, how the regurgitated food is barely masticated.”
Wincing, the minister had to look away. “But do you not intervene in a compassionate, if not medical sense?”
“No. Never. We provide for the addict’s specific needs. In this case, an extensive menu of food, and then record everything that happens in the booth afterwards. If you look closely, you’ll see cameras positioned in each corner of the room.”
“But this is barbaric! Surely you review the addict’s medical notes, their case histories, and try—”
“Only the addict’s current behaviour interests us here. It’s our firm belief that we will never succeed in understanding addictive, repetitive, compulsive, and ultimately self-destructive behaviour unless we let each individual addict under our care see their own personal journey through to the end. If we intervene, as the medical community has done since time immemorial, then we can only ever offer temporary solutions and partial curatives. Six months later, the addict will resume their self-destructive activities. But if they’re allowed to continue on the addictive path, they might just be able to arrest their behaviour and find longer-term solutions for themselves.”
The minister blew out some air and shook his head. “Well, I suppose that makes some kind of sense. But I’m still far from convinced. Not just by your theorising, but this facility’s reason to exist.”
“Then perhaps we should move on to Addict #2. Please, Minister, come this way.”
In the next addiction booth, an identical cell-like space to the previous one, a paunchy, puffy-faced man of middle age was sitting at the table. In a pair of heavily stained boxer shorts, with hair sticking up on end, and what constituted a full beard, he was staring vacantly at what appeared to be music videos on the television screen. On the table in front of him stood an array of empty, half-empty, and full bottles and glasses, ranging from spirits, wines, and premium beers. Every minute or so, he would pick up a glass and either knock back a shot of spirit, or take a great guzzle of wine or beer, and then fill the receptacle up to the brim again.
“Compare what we have just witnessed with our next addict,” said Stojanovic. “To give you the appropriate context, Minister, this man has been binge-drinking for just over eleven days now. He imbibes heavily until he knocks himself unconscious, wakes in a daze, then continues to drink again. He hasn’t washed or brushed his teeth for nine of those eleven days. He has barely eaten a morsel of food, even though he requested an extensive menu of specific items. In the main, soups and sandwiches. Liquid or light dishes which might absorb some of the alcohol in his stomach and not induce physical sickness.”
“And he just sits there all day long staring at the television screen?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“But what of the long-term damage he’s doing to his body? Only last week, I read some startling figures regarding hospital admissions for alcohol-related illnesses.”
“Again, that’s not our remit here. In this case, a combination of misinformation and environment have proved incredibly unfortunate. Working-class addicts of his generation were brought up in homes where alcohol was consumed regularly. Trips to public bars with their fathers were rites of passage adventures. In the press or on the television, they learned that alcohol in moderation can be a good and positive thing in their lives. Now, scientific research tells us that alcohol is toxic to every cell in our body. Physically, he already has advanced cirrhosis of the liver, severe delirium tremens. If he wakes up in the night, he immediately reaches for the nearest bottle or glass.”
“Then, effectively, he’s under you care at this facility merely to drink himself to death?”
“In one sense, I could in no way dispute that statement. In another, perhaps more important sense, I could make a compelling argument about his case study being of paramount importance in understanding the addictive mindset for generations to come.
“Now, shall we move onto Addict #3, Minister? Please be warned, though. You may observe behaviour you find offensive.”
In the next addiction booth, a young woman sat naked and splay-legged in front of the television screen watching hardcore pornographic images. Head bowed and body inert, as if suffering from profound exhaustion, her hand was nevertheless stimulating her genital region in slow circular motions. Strewn across the floor were dozens of vibrators and dildoes in different shapes, sizes, and colours, like an errant child’s overturned toy chest.
“This case needs no explanation,” said Stojanovic. “From an early age, Addict #3 displayed extreme forms of obsessive compulsive behaviour. Every other week, she had a new fad or craze, something she literally couldn’t stop doing. When she discovered masturbation aged eight, her world descended into a sordid and –”
“How does a girl of eight ‘discover masturbation’?”
“You’d be surprised, Minister. Most girls experiment with the genital region around that time; they sexualise themselves in so many ways. In the case of Addict #3, she was innocently playing around with the bidet in the family bathroom. She liked the sensation of the jets of water against the clitoris, which culminated in her first-ever orgasm.”
“But why does she appear so lifeless and lethargic now?”
“Two reasons. Firstly, she masturbates in excess of thirty times a day. In fact, over some twenty-four hour periods my colleagues have been hard-pushed to find a single frame of footage where she isn’t engaged in some act of self-pleasure. Naturally, this can be physically draining. But that’s only half the problem. So vigorously and regularly does she touch herself that she develops sores on both the vaginal and anal regions. In the normal scheme of things, a medical physician would advise, if not physically prohibit a patient who came under their care with such a complaint from touching themselves for fourteen to twenty-one days, or until the sores had healed sufficiently. But Addict #3’s obsession towards a state approaching, or in the orgasmic state itself are far too great for that.”
“Can’t you bound or restrain her in some way? If not, the poor woman might do herself some serious injury.”
“No, no. Like I said, that’s not the way we work at the institute. But fortunately, for Addict #3, the human being is nothing if not a resourceful animal. See how she has adopted a slower, more considered masturbatory technique which lessens the friction on her sores yet allows her to enjoy the holy orgasm…eventually.”
“And like Addict #2, she does absolutely nothing else all day?”
Stojanovic shook his head. “She even eats with a sex toy inserted deep inside one, often two orifices.”
“And how long has she been here?”
“From shortly after we opened our doors eight years ago. Now, shall we move onto another extreme but most fascinating case?”
In booth number four, what looked at first sight like a pale, gaunt-faced teenage boy, but who Stojanovic later confirmed was in fact a man of thirty-seven, sat with his back pressed up against the far wall, facing the window, with one sleeve of his shirt rolled up to the elbow, a small razor blade in his other hand, which he every now and then used to slash his exposed forearm.
“My word!” cried the minister. “The boy looks as if he’s attempting to take his own life, to cut his wrists.”
“No, no,” said Stojanovic. “He’s way past that stage, although he does have over twenty suicide attempts on his medical records. Now he’s more than content with what he himself calls ‘small incisions, just so I know I can still feel.’”
“I – I don’t understand. And I don’t possibly see how anyone can derive any kind of satisfaction from inflicting pain upon themselves. With the previous addicts – the eating, drinking, and erm…more illicit activities – I can, to an extent, understand how they started down the road to addiction. But why on earth would any human being in their right mind cut themselves?”
“For us at the institute, whether an addict has suffered abuse, trauma, or the loss of a loved one is irrelevant in the bigger scheme of things. In so many respects, we’re antithetical to all forms of modern holistic treatment, where practitioners will look at the patient’s whole life experience rather than the specific problem. We focus wholly on the addiction and the addiction alone. Even the addict is somewhat superfluous to our research here.”
“What? How can you disassociate the individual from their actual illness? The whole idea is preposterous.”
“But quite simplistic, not to mention essential in practise. But I can see that this particular case has upset you somewhat. Let’s move on to booth number five, and one of our longer-term addicts.”
They walked a few metres down the brightly lit corridor, and peered in through the window of booth five. Inside, a wrinkly faced white man with dreadlocks sat cross-legged in front of the television screen, watching a nature documentary. In comparison to the other cells, this one was filthy, with empty takeaway boxes, bottles of water, and what appeared to be crisp and chocolate bar wrappers all over the floor. To his right stood a large bong, plastic pouches full of marijuana, and other associated drug paraphernalia: cigarette papers and pipes being the most prominent. Dangling from his mouth was a huge monstrosity of a marijuana cigarette that it would be no exaggeration to say must’ve measured two and half feet in length.
“As you can see,” said Stojanovic, “Addict #5 is perhaps the most contented of our inmates. This, he himself, attributes to the spiritual connection he associates between ‘getting stoned’ and the world around him.”
“But there is no world around him,” the minister quickly countered. “He is, to all intents and purposes, residing inside a prison cell twenty-four hours a day, with no access to society or other people.”
“Again, I feel that is a somewhat narrow view of the addictive mind. Do we all not, to a lesser or greater degree, occupy our own internal worlds? The hardened marijuana smoker doesn’t exist in a normal state of consciousness. They believe that the natural herb elevates them to a different spiritual plane. To you or I, or anyone who might happen to be standing here today, this man looks as if he’s sitting cross-legged (as he has been for the last nine days, pausing only to grab a few hours of fitful sleep) in front of a television. But believe me—and we’ve carried out of a lot of research into this area—their minds are incredibly attuned to every sound, smell, colour, whatever their senses conjure or encounter is amplified, intensified, to the extent that a fly buzzing around the room would be akin to a symphony orchestra striking up, a trek along a mountain range on a bracing winter’s morning, the feel of a lover’s hand on the face, the oneness a religious ascetic experiences with all things in the universe following weeks of fasting and meditation.”
“Eloquently put, no doubt,” said the minister. “But he is a man sitting cross-legged in what constitutes a cell, in front of a television. That is the fact of the matter. And how anyone could derive any sense of spiritual nourishment from such a sad seclusive existence is beyond me. It’s a waste of a life.”
“Another subjective view. But when you take into account that this particular addict smokes around half an ounce of marijuana a day, and has done for the last twenty-five years. And that he has developed all kinds of physical and mental health problems, most prominently chronic emphysema and an acute state of paranoid psychosis, then you do have a point.”
“‘Paranoid psychosis’? How do you mean, exactly?”
“That at any moment, Addict #5 may switch off the television, and stalk or stumble around the cubicle. He may turn the furniture upside down, in search of what, only he knows. He may jump up and down waving his hands in front of the cameras I mentioned earlier. He may rush into the bathroom, and plunge his head into the toilet bowl. He may shower, towel himself down, then have another shower straight afterwards. He may rush back through to the living space, grab all the foodstuffs, and begin to flush them down the same toilet unit.”
“Why, exactly?”
“It’s part of his condition. Smoking illicit substances for that amount of time changes the chemical architecture of the brain. Often, he’ll give a start at the merest suggestion of an alien sound, usually from the television, and is known to break into tears for no reason at all.”
“And you call that a state of ‘higher consciousness’, ‘spiritual enlightenment’ rather than the actions of a sad, schizophrenic in dire need of proper medical care?”
“Yes, and I stand by it,” Stojanovic flared slightly. “Not that I’d be crude enough to cloak it in such terms as a ‘quantity theory of addiction’, but that terminology is illustrative if nothing else, and does hold weight. If any addict interned at this facility has a platform on which their addiction can thrive, those in society who may be vulnerable to succumbing to future addiction may avoid that particular life path.”
“What? Are you seriously suggesting that if you keep addicts addicted, then less people will go on to become addicts? But that’s ridiculous. I’ve seen the figures from the Ministry of Health. We’re facing a pandemic of new drug users and alcoholics.”
“And I have data even more persuasive which suggests quite the opposite. But let’s not argue the point for now. Let’s move on to the last addict on our tour.”
In the next addiction booth, a woman of around sixty with an apron over everyday clothes, and marigolds on her hands was scrubbing the tiled floor. Everything in the cell was neat, ordered, and pristine: the surface of the table shone, the bed was made, the walls looked to have been freshly cleaned. Close by were a host of cleaning products: bleach, polishes, toilet cleaners, a mop and bucket, two vacuum cleaners (one stand-up, one handheld), and any number of dusters and cloths.
“Addict #6 is obsessed with cleaning. On the surface, and to many people’s minds, a far milder form of addiction or compulsive behaviour.”
“That goes without saying.”
“But does it, though, when you really break things down, as we do on an hourly basis? Undoubtedly, cleanliness has its place in this world. But do you not find the notion of an individual spending every waking hour wiping away invisible stains that don’t exist, vacuuming sections of carpet they’ve vacuumed six times already that day, sanitising work surfaces, disinfecting toilets, emptying shower drains which are empty anyway seriously disconcerting? Make no mistake, Minister, this particular addict is as delusional and dangerous to herself as any you’ve visited today.”
“No, no, no.” The minister shook his head from side to side. “I simply cannot concur. Gorging yourself on food and then making yourself sick, alcoholism, drug use, self-harm are real life-threatening, anti-social behaviours which must be eradicated from society.”
“But I have further statistical information that refutes your claims. A few moments ago, you spoke with genuine sadness about a ‘waste of life’, yet you have another example of it right in front you and choose to ignore it. Ultimately, we believe that the course of addiction is as chartable as the course of a fever. As such, we at the institute are more statisticians than physicians. We merely record the addicts’ actions, rate of consumption, et cetera. We then correlate that information against previous behavioural patterns. And as you well know, Minister, we’re privately funded, and the addicts come to us of their own free will.”
“Of course they do – they’re addicts and would do anything to carry on with their addictive pursuits without having to worry about the outside world, jobs, families, responsibilities.”
“Not to offend you, but that is a frankly retroactive and unhelpful statement. These addicts have failed to respond to any conventional treatment or treatment programme. Only with more in-depth research can we hope to make real, lasting progress. These people are not tragic cases to be pitied rather pioneers in their own unique fields.”
“But how do you judge the success of your programme? How many addicts have left this facility and, to use your own words, ‘completed their addictive journey’? Do you have a way of judging your performance, do you have a success rate?”
“We have a 0.0% success rate at present, and of that we are immensely proud.”
Photo of Neil Randall
BIO: Neil Randall is a novelist and short story writer. His latest book, Three Days with Adrianna (Anxiety Press) was released in March 2024. His next, The Professional Mourner (Dark Winter Press), will come out in early May this year. His shorter fiction and poetry have been published in the U.K., U.S., India, Australia, and Canada. Further news and samples of his work can be viewed here: https://narandall.blogspot.com/