It is on the morning of the fifth day after the fact that I begin to fear that the damage might be lasting.
I have to talk to someone. From my friends I receive only platitudes, from my girlfriend anger. I go on a popular questions and answers website, and post. "I have burned my brain with ketamine, what can I do?" Most of the replies are abuse. One sticks in my mind in its grim sternness: "You should have thought of it before!"
I don't know who to turn to any more. I talk to my grandfather, the only member of my family I trust. He hears my story but I don't think he gets the point. He confides taking Methedrine while in the Army. But that doesn't help me. I leave him, feeling no better. Despair is flaring up in my lack of advice. In a barrel-scratching move, I look up the local needle exchange and I attend.
The entourage in the dark supermarket car park is a depressing sight. Most of the junkies refuse to talk to me. One though, seems to understand, and gives me the number of a mystical healer called Maguire. I have nothing to lose. I dial. Maguire agrees to meet in a bar. I remember looking for him among the tables. The next day I wake up in my bed. Upon inspecting a dull burning ache, I realise I have been raped.