I spotted the bottled water and reached for one, wrestling the cap off before I downed nearly the whole thing in one go. I finished it and tried to get the cap back on. Couldn't. Shaky hands. Awesome.
How long had it been since I'd had any heroin because my body was telling me it had been too long?
That was the other reason why this shit was so fucked up. Right then, I felt like shit. My head was pounding. I couldn't remember anything, and I felt like I'd probably made some terrible decisions the night before, but I didn't want to use. I wasn't anxious and panicky. I didn't feel like I was drowning. My body was just so used to having that fucking poison in it all the time that it was getting dope sick.
It wasn't just me that was addicted, like the me who could control the shit I did and didn't do. I needed the stuff. I'd trained my body to need it like I needed food. Like I needed water.
I knew how this went. The longer I took before I shot up again, the worse it would get. I'd start sweating more, and then I'd get queasy. I'd throw up even though I was certain I hadn't had anything to eat since I'd gotten here yesterday. I'd get sicker and sicker till it eventually passed and I stopped withdrawing, which could take days, or I'd cave and shoot up so I wouldn't feel like I was dying.
I already knew which one was going to happen. I chucked the empty bottle in the trash with its bottle cap and staggered back to the bed. I leaned over to my backpack, where I knew my kit was. I tried the zipper, getting frustrated and nearly breaking it, trying to open it up. I pulled my kit out and put it on the bed in front of me.
I was starting to get anxious now that I knew what was coming. I knew I just had to get this stupid thing open and stick the needle in me, and I'd be fine.
My hands felt like they weren't mine trying to get a hold on the zipper. I got it open a little, then shoved my fingers in the hole, pulling the zipper teeth apart. My stuff flew out of the bag, landing on the bed and the floor.
"Fuck," I swore, managing to get one bottle before it rolled off the bed and smashed on the floor. Syringes were all over the ground. I got down on my hands and knees to grab one. I wasn't gentle enough trying to get its plastic wrapping off. It snapped into two pieces in my hands.
"Shit." I threw the pieces across the room and searched the floor for the closest one to me. I spotted one peeking out from under the couch at the foot of the bed and angrily shoved it out of the way. I dropped to my knees, getting the syringe out. I lugged my suitcase out of my way, making all my luggage fall out across the floor.
I climbed back onto the bed and tried to pierce the vial to fill the syringe. My hands were shaking and sweaty. I wiped them off on my jeans and tried again, gritting my teeth. I got it filled and swore again, remembering my belt was still somewhere on the floor.
Fuck it. I needed this now before it got any worse. I flexed my arm, clenching my fist to find somewhere to stick it. I got it inside, feeling the little bit of pain when the needle stuck. I pulled some blood out and carefully emptied the syringe.
I fell back on the bed, exhausted. The high crept up on me. It felt like being filled up with warm air. I started feeling better immediately, but it only lasted until I realized what I had done again.
What I was still doing.
Was it even worth getting mad about anymore? I was sick. I had gone, what? Twelve or so hours without my stuff, and my body told me no way.
I lay there for a while, waiting to feel well enough to get up again. The drug made my headache disappear, but I knew I was still technically hungover. I got up and walked around the room, finally able to take it in since I'd woken up. The sliding double doors onto the terrace were open, and I wondered whether I had done it or if housekeeping had come through when I was passed out.
I walked back inside. I needed more water. And food probably; had I eaten since I'd gotten here? I wasn't really that hungry, but it would probably help me with my hangover when I'd come down enough to feel it again.
I walked through the living area to get another water when I stopped. The piano. It was there. The girl who'd brought me up to my suite had told me they'd gotten me one, but I was just then really looking at it.
I walked over. It was nice. White instead of traditional black, probably so it didn't clash with the way the rest of the room was decorated. They'd had to move some of the furniture around to make it fit, but it wasn't that obvious if you didn't know it wasn't technically supposed to be there. I ran a hand over the smooth, painted wood before I lifted the cover to look at the keys.
The piano was always my favorite. Ever since I used to sit on the bench with my mother as a kid, obstructing her while she tried to play. She was a classically trained pianist, but hadn't gone into a musical career, making it her hobby instead.
I still had her piano. It was an antique grand piano that my father had gotten her, which he had refused to give me many times before he finally let me have it. Rumor was she used to play when she was pregnant with me, so I'd been listening to classical music since before I was born. I didn't know whether that was true or not, but it wasn't a bad thing to imagine.
I sat down, ghosting my fingers over the keys. She could play anything. I remembered being so impressed by how well she knew all the dead masters' music. She was my piano teacher until I started going to school and it became too inconvenient for her to do it anymore.
I played a couple keys. Then a couple more. My fingers knew where to go. Chopin. “Nocturne number one.” B flat major. My dad would listen to classical music sometimes when he worked, too. Neither of them had ever drilled me to practice. I always loved it. It had always been one thing I knew they were happy that I did, and that just made me love it more.
I knew the piece by heart. I didn't need any sheet music. I used to be able to lose hours sat at the piano. Something about it was so calming to me.
Not just the sound of the music, but the action, too. It felt so productive, like the music was inside of me, and the piano was just the way it got out. At some point, my headache dulled a little, and I felt myself get lost in the rhythm of playing — remembering the song, hearing it inside my head before I played the keys.
By the time I was done, it was already past one. I decided to take a shower. I needed one. I grabbed a Snickers bar from the refreshment center, too, since I hadn't eaten anything since I'd gotten here. I was doing this wrong. This wasn't how you had a vacation. Whatever, I could just start today. Today was my real first day.
After the shower, I looked at the in-room dining menu before I stopped. What was I doing? Why was I still hiding? It was safe here. I didn't need to hide out. Nobody had recognized me, and if they had, they didn't care. I was just another guy here. I went down to the first floor.
Last night was foggy at best, but I had definitely gotten drunk, so I had definitely gone to a bar. Did they also serve food? Where had it been? Definitely not in here; it was outside somewhere. I left the main building looking around like I was seeing everything for the first time. People were laid out in their swimsuits by the pool. Yeah, the place might have been near the pool, I kind of remembered almost falling into it.
I looked around and spotted it, separated from the pool by a small, palm-covered lawn. It was open air with a palm leaf thatched roof. I grabbed a stool and sat down.
"Hey. You made it through the night," the bartender said, coming up to me. I looked at him, and when he didn't look away, I realized he was talking to me.