Substance: Datura Stramonium (Devil’s Trumpet)
Dose: Handful of seeds, mugwort, wormwood, unmeasured tea made in an old coffee pot
Setting: Mom’s basement / Somewhere Else / I can’t tell what’s real anymore
Hour 0 – “Ignition Failure”
There’s no beginning to a Datura trip. It’s not like acid or shrooms where you feel the waves build. One second you’re there, and the next you’re in a different story written by something that doesn’t care if it ends.
I drank the tea because a guy on a forum said, “If you respect the plant, it will reveal the truth.”
So I stared into my mug like it was an oracle and said, “I am ready.”
I don’t know if I was.
Hour ??? – “The Cigarette Man”
The fan in my room was melting. Dripping onto the floor in thick slugs of plastic. The walls were breathing but in reverse, like they were trying to inhale me.
That’s when I saw the Cigarette Man.
Not a hallucination, he was there. Long limbs. No face, just a dark slit where smoke poured out. He crouched like a spider in the corner, puffing on his screaming cigarette. I could see teeth in the ember.
“You forgot something,” he rasped, voice made of chewing glass.
He flicked his cigarette into my eye. I screamed, but nothing came out of my mouth, just static.
Hour ? – “Visitors”
I kept trying to check the time. Every clock I looked at said “MEAT.” My phone didn’t work. Every number I tried to call ended up connecting me to a cricket that spoke in my father’s voice, telling me I owed him “eight trillion whispers.”
I had visitors throughout the night. Not friends. Not enemies. Just… figures.
One was a priest with no mouth who handed me a Bible that bled through the pages when I opened it.
One was a child-sized woman made of moss who kept giggling and saying, “The trees are listening again.”
And one was my brother.
But I don’t have a brother.
He looked just like me, except his face was on backward. He kept saying, “We split in the womb, and I got the rot.”
Location: Uncertain
I think I left the house.
I remember the sky was too loud. Every star was chanting. Latin? No, something older. It wasn’t words, it was hunger.
I walked to the gas station four blocks away with no pants and a notebook full of ash.
I tried to buy matches from a man with no eyes. Just perfectly round holes that led into nothing. When I asked how much they cost, he laughed and said, “You’ve already traded your name.”
I looked down and my name was gone. Replaced with symbols like insects crawling across paper.
I bought the matches anyway and lit one.
Time bent around the flame. Everything turned orange. Then blue. Then I was back in my room, but the room was sideways and bleeding.
Memory Fragment – “Toilet Prayers”
I remember praying into the toilet. Not vomiting. Just talking to it.
The toilet said, “I forgive you.”
It flushed on its own and whispered, “Now go find her.”
I didn’t know who “her” was. But I obeyed.
Encounter – “The Woman in the TV”
The television was on, but not plugged in. The screen showed a woman—no face, just a blinding void where her head should be. But I knew she was staring.
She spoke without sound. Her thoughts just arrived inside me:
“You should not have eaten the seed. You are not a garden.”
I nodded. I started crying. I don’t know why. The tears turned into ants, and they marched back into my eyes.
Hour Infinity – “The Jury of Myself”
I was in a courtroom. Again. But now the judge was my third-grade teacher. The bailiff was my dead cat wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
The jury? Twelve versions of me. One was me at age 4. One was me old and dying. One was me as a shadow. One was just a mouth.
They accused me of:
- Stealing fire from the angels
- Forgetting my mother’s birthday
- Laughing during the silence of Grandpa’s funeral
- “Turning the sky inside out”
I pleaded guilty.
My sentence was remembering everything I’ve ever forgotten, all at once.
I screamed. It sounded like wind chimes made of teeth.
Re-entry? – “Aftermath”
I woke up in my bed.
I thought it was over.
But the shadows still move wrong. I still see the Cigarette Man in reflections that aren’t mine. Every time I blink, I hear a name that isn’t mine, whispered from somewhere behind my bones.
It’s been six days.
The ants are back. I don’t trust mirrors. I don’t answer the phone.
I think my soul is still walking somewhere else, dragging a leash behind it.
Final Thoughts:
Datura doesn’t take you on a trip. It removes the road. There is no peak, no comedown, no insight. Only confusion and the illusion of self peeled back like wet wallpaper.
Do not do Datura. Not for fun. Not for ego death.
Not even if the Cigarette Man says it’s okay.
Because he knows your name.
And if you take it, he’ll use it.
Rating: 0/10
Would I do it again?
Certainly.
Kal is a pussy