Pain and Powder, written by Charles Randolph: A story of addiction as companionship, pain as identity and control. [Working draft, last updated 4/30/25]
Where’s Jack
I had never looked for a body before.
It was morning, cold and cool. The kind that settles in your chest. The sun was rising slowly in the distance, casting light across an empty sprawl of fields. I was centered there — forest to the north, a valley curling out to my right, and rolling hills stretching far beyond the edge of my vision.
I paused for a moment and took a single stalk, sliding my thumb and forefinger from its base to the tip, pulling the grains free as I moved. A small brown tree of grains formed where my fingers met. Then, with a breath, I let them go, leaving their fate to the will of the wind.
I moved along a trampled path, broken stalks of wheat and long grass crunching beneath my boots. It reminded me of a garden trail — overgrown and forgotten. I couldn’t help but think of old films, the kind where four-foot-high wheat and whispering grass concealed something terrible underneath.
That’s what I was doing, wasn’t it?
Searching.
Searching for someone named Jack.
I wasn’t quite sure who he was, or what I expected to find. But I felt like I knew him, not in the way you know someone from memory, but in the way you recognize a voice calling out from somewhere deep inside you.
Then the wind would shift. I’d turn around.
“Keep searching… keep searching,” a voice would whisper.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just present.
A whisperer. Some guide I couldn’t place.
Where was Jack???
“Hey. Wake up.”
Sam stirred, startled by the voice. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming, but then it clicked — the voice belonged to Jack.
“Man, you wouldn’t believe the dream I just had,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes.
“You dreaming of me again?” Jack grinned. “Can’t say I blame you. Many do.”
Jack always had a quick wit about him — effortless, dry, always a half-beat ahead. He stood, next to the bed, bent at the waist with an excited air of impatience upon him.
“I was looking for you,” Sam said. “In a field. I think there was a body. Yours, maybe. But I couldn’t find it.”
“Great news, Sam,” Jack replied with a smirk. “You just did.”
He returned to his normal, standing and confident form. “Now let’s talk. Or just listen. My preference, honestly. But I’m willing to work with what I can get — which doesn’t look like much right now, but hey, we’ll see how it plays out.”
He handed Sam a cup.
“Here. Coffee.”
Sam took the offering. The warmth felt real enough.
Jack was always good at taking something from you – your edge, your hesitation – and then building you back up with something slick and sweet. It made you feel special, like you wanted more of whatever he had to offer, even when you knew better.
There was something about him. That thing you just couldn’t stand, but kept around anyway. Because it gave you something — comfort, clarity, control, maybe even love. Jack was a friend. Always there. Reliable in the worst ways.
But his motivations?
They stayed tucked behind that smile and wit. Hidden, the way good lies always are.
Coming scene… the room.
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