23
Emily
Now that we are under the same roof, Kevin can’t hide his bad days from me anymore. And unfortunately, there are more bad days than good. Sometimes he is flighty and neurotic—ranting and unable to sit still. Other days he is somnolent, and it’s hard for him to get out of bed. Most days it’s a little bit of both.
We hold hands as we walk on a nature trail. I clamber over slithering branches along the path, while his long legs leap over them effortlessly. Kevin leans over and kisses me. A sweet kiss that ends too soon. A far away gunshot breaks the silence—not an uncommon sound in these parks around this time of year. His lips freeze on mine and his eyes widen.
“Emily, come on. We have to go!”
He pulls me into the woods in a panic. I fall over logs and the trees whip me with their branches.
“Stop, Kevin! I can’t keep up with you!” I plead with him, but he doesn’t respond.
His mind is somewhere terrifying. He looks wildly from left to right and dodges for cover behind the trunks of trees. By the time I talk him down, we’re lost. He looks around as he fumbles with his holster, hand so tight around the grip of his pistol that his knuckles are white. I’m breathless and panting. I reach my hand up and find a cut on my forehead. I pull my hand away. Crimson stains my fingertips.
“Kevin, stop! Please!”
His stance is rigid and he’s on full alert. I can't seem to distract him and bring him back down to reality. He’s lost somewhere deep and scary in his mind. It’s a place I can’t understand. He drops to his knees, tears falling from his dark eyes. He allows his hands to fall to the ground, away from his pistol.
“I'm… so sorry.” He looks up at me with flushed, tear-stained cheeks.
I lean down and cradle his head to my chest. “It's okay,” I whisper to him, the way a mother comforts her child after a nightmare. “It’s okay.”
I look around and see only trees. How far off the trail did we go?
* * *
David
Once Emily moved out,it was a spiral for me. I lost my grasp on my strongest support system. My only support system. I crumbled. Emily has always been my foundation. That’s a dangerous dependency. Quitting Emily is more difficult than I could have imagined.
I haven't used heroin in a while. I pull the miniature baggies from between my mattresses and shake them. They rustle as I walk to the bathroom and lift the lid of the toilet. I look down, wishing I had the strength to flush them. Wishing I had the willpower to not cave to this temptation. I hold them in my hand and close them in a fist until my knuckles grow white. I’m not strong enough, and I’m weaker than ever without Emily here.
I leave the bathroom and grab a spoon from the kitchen. My mouth waters as I pour my typical amount onto the metal. My veins ache for it.
I return to my bedroom, reaching over to touch the knob on the radio. I turn up my music. I anticipate an incredible high and a beautiful low as I tie my arm. My veins rise to the surface.
I rub my hand along my skin. The blisters are gone. Some scars remain, but no one can tell unless they take a closer look. This was probably the most symbolic part of my journey away from heroin. I don’t look like a druggie any longer.
I hesitate, giving myself a chance to change my mind. My hands move on autopilot, and I pull the liquid into a syringe, flick twice, and dive the needle into my skin. I tug the tourniquet, and it snaps away in one fluid motion. I relax into the chair—into the euphoria.
I go further down than I ever have before. My body is heavy. I always aim to shoot down the stars—to achieve an incredible high—but in the middle of this ascension, I may end up plummeting into the ground instead.
I grab my phone and call Emily. It goes right to voicemail. I try to leave her a message, but I can’t tell if I’m speaking actual words. Incoherent sounds gurgle from my throat. I lean forward and my head slumps as I fall to the floor. My eyelids are too heavy, and my eyes race behind them. I’m so tired. I can’t stay awake any longer. I allow myself to fall into the beckoning sleep.
* * *
Emily
We struggle through the woods,trying to find our way back to the car. My heart continues racing as I take on his anxiety as my own. My phone dings as soon as we get reception. It's a garbled and panicked voice mail from David.
“Can you run me to David's real quick? He sent me a really strange voicemail,” I say as I try to call David back. I get his voicemail.
“You know I don't like that guy, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Neither of you like each other, but you guys have to learn to get along because I refuse to lose either of you.”
I kiss him gently. I pull the visor down and look in the mirror, wincing as I finally see the cuts marring my face. There’s dried blood on my cheeks.
The engine roars to life, and we head toward my old apartment. The roads wind. Kevin’s grasp is firm on the steering wheel. He doesn’t speak to me on the way toward David. His breaths are laced with annoyance and his gaze remains on the road in front of us.
The drive feels like it takes an eternity as I try to call David again. His phone rings and continues going to voicemail. We finally pull into the parking lot, and I nearly stumble out of the car in my haste. My steps are hurried as I head toward our door and let myself into the apartment we once shared. The air is thick, and all the windows are closed.
“David?”
Music blares from his bedroom. The door is shut. I open it and the bass from his bedside radio rattles the inside of my chest. His bedroom light is off. I turn down the volume of his stereo.
“David?”
Silence. I flip the light switch and find him face down on the floor. My heart is in my throat. He’s pale, and his skin is moist. I try to turn him over, but I’m not strong enough. I see froth on his lips. I put my hand under his nose, but I don’t feel his breath.
“Kevin!” I scream.
He comes into the bedroom and looks down at us. He’s almost smug about it.
“Help me turn him over.” My voice is shrill and panicked.
He stands there for a moment, as if considering whether it might benefit him to let David die. Finally, he reaches down and flips David onto his back. David’s head falls to the side. There’s vomit on the carpet. He takes a breath, and I let out a sigh of relief. But his breaths are too far between. He takes one last weak breath, and then his chest is motionless.
“No, David,” I plead. I put my ear to his chest and then to his mouth. Silence. Sickening Silence. I listen for his heartbeat but only hear my own, screaming in my ears.
I pull out my phone and dial 911. I fumble for the numbers. It’s only three numbers, but it might as well have been one hundred. I follow the guidance of the calm-voiced operator.
“Can you tell if he has a pulse?”
“No, I can’t tell,” I say.