Exploring The Reality Of IV Drug Use

It's like one of those cheap horror flicks where zombies come out of the fog.

The sun sets on East Hastings and everything turns to a dull, greyish colour. Vibrant murals are all but drowned out by graffiti and the once-living faces of the people that trudge past it. But like the walls, the faces are disguised by warped, drugged-up masks--people aimlessly wandering, prodded skin and sunken eyes.

Once you enter East Hastings, you've stepped into something you can't quite call life. The people aren't dead yet, but they're not alive either. Needles decorate the curbs. Piles of what looks like rubbish turns out to be someone's home for the night. The alleys smell like outhouses with a hint of rotten food, marijuana or vomit . . . it's hard to tell which one. The volume seems to be muted except for the random bursts of profanity. Everything is hazy. Everything is monotone. You may as well be colourblind.

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