Spiked

I woke up at about 5.30am on Saturday (1 May) morning (very unusually early for me), with an uneasiness sitting in my chest that I couldn’t shake off. By 6.30 I was just drifting back to sleep when my phone rang, twice. What was a Mountain Club person that I hardly know phoning me this early in the morning for? I didn’t answer. Luckily he smsed me after I didn’t answer: “Jason* is near Mullins, he says he’s been spiked. Have called CPU.” I don’t think I have ever jumped out of bed or pulled a hoodie and jeans on that fast in my life before. Jason is one of the people at Rhodes (and in the world) that I’m closest too. I jumped into my friends old, unreliable skadonk of a car and raced to Mullins and sure enough, there he was, lying in the grass and mud, a few worried Mountain club members surrounding him, not quite sure of what to do. Jason recognized me when I kneeled down next to him. He was upset and looked terrible, and he clung onto me like he’d never let go, thanking me for coming. I managed to get him into the car and wanted to take him to the hospital, but he refused to let me take him there. So I brought him to my place, got him into my bed and sat with him, trying to find out more about what happened. The tunnels sounded like fun: They had ridiculous conversations sitting around the fire, ran around fooling around with friends, and danced in the tunnel.
At some stage in the early hours of the morning Jason started feeling really strange, got scared and started walking towards town. His aim was to find someone, anyone who he could ask to get hold of me, so that I could help him. When he got near Mullins the Mountain Club guys were there getting equipment out the storeroom for a weekend climb and he managed to ask them for help and gave them my address. By some miracle, the guy who picked me up at my digs for the previous weekend’s hike, recognized the address as being mine and immediately tried to get hold of me.
Jason spent the day in my bed. In the morning I lay with him as he rolled around restlessly, my arm on his chest the whole time so that I could feel his heart, petrified that it would stop beating. As he fell asleep he was speaking, hardly making sense, it sounded like he was reciting his history essay, using words such as ‘therefore’ ‘subsequently’ and ‘thus.’ He encouraged me to avoid the alphabet and that I must use writing to warn people that the alphabet is bad. I couldn’t help giggling at the weirdness of it, even though I was still scared shitless. I kept checking on him throughout the day, the whole time wondering if I was doing the right thing by not taking him to the hospital or doctor to get professional help.
At some stage in the late morning Jason couldn’t move any of his muscles. He couldn’t lift his arms, he couldn’t roll over – I had to push him over, his lips felt strange and he couldn’t focus properly. He was scared and I was scared. I kept making him drink water, totally unsure of whether I was doing the right thing or not. By the afternoon, he was able to walk around for short periods of time on really shaky legs. By the evening, he was doing much better. He looked better and said that he felt better.
He suspected that while they were dancing in the tunnel, one of the bottles of water that was being passed around (he was drinking from anyone and everyone’s bottles of water) must have been spiked. Possibly with a muscle relaxant, judging by his reaction. The amount of alcohol he’d had to drink couldn’t have been a good combination either.
Jason’s fine now, thank goodness, but I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if something had happened to him because I didn’t take him to the hospital.
*Name changed to protect identity