Then there is the runny nose and sweating. He is constantly sniffling, but blames it on allergies—which, whatever. Thatcouldbe valid—but there’re also many times where I’ve noticed him looking clammy or sweaty, when it wasn’t even hot.
I don’t know. Like I said, I’m obsessing. I want Knox to be wrong, so fucking badly, but the way my gut twists tells me he probably isn’t. During the day, I’ll notice that he disappears to the bathroom for longer than usual. Which, I guess he couldactuallybe going to the bathroom, and that takes a while on occasion, but every day?
And that fucking backpack.
I swear to God, I have never needed to know the contents of someone’s bag as much as I need to with his. Which is how I find myself standing over it in the middle of the night right now. I can’t sleepagain, and he’s passed out and snoring. This is my opportunity to figure it out, but I feel like shit. I’m violating his privacy, which is a shitty thing to do. But at the same time, if heisdoing drugs, I need to know.
So, it’s justified… right?
That’s what I continue to tell myself as I carry the backpack into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Setting it on the counter, I stare at it. My palms are starting to sweat, and my heart is beating so fast, you’d think I was about to try and diffuse a bomb.
“Just do it. Just fucking open the thing up and look. It’s fine.”
With shaky hands, I carefully unzip the main part. Inside are his clothes, deodorant, his AirPods, and his wallet.
“See. We’re off to a good start. No drugs.”
Fuck. I’ve resorted to talking to myself in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, while the rest of the house is sound asleep. I’m losing my fucking mind.
My gaze falls to the front pocket, and I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I’m so fucking nervous. If I find something in here, it changes everything. I have no idea what my next move would be. On the flip side, though, if there’s nothing in here, I just rummaged through his shit for no reason.
Finding my metaphorical balls, I unzip the pocket and peer inside. All the oxygen in the room is sucked out, suffocating me, and my heart threatens to break out of my chest. Right there, next to a pack of Marlboro menthols—that I didn’t even know he smoked—are two baggies.
The first one I grab has a handful of tiny, circular, white pills. There must be close to a dozen. Setting that aside, I grab the second baggie. This one has a rolled-up bill in it, and a smaller baggie inside with white powder. Opening the pack of cigarettes, there’s only a few missing, and a green lighter is tucked inside.
There’s a lump in my throat blocking my airway. Squatting down, I rub my chest absentmindedly, trying to get oxygen into my lungs. The blood whooshing in my ears is deafening, the room suddenly feeling too small and too fucking hot.
I’m going to be fucking sick.
There’s just enough time for me to turn and hurry to the toilet before all contents of my stomach are expelled from my body. My head hangs in the toilet, stomach heaving, and sweat slicking my back.
Flushing the toilet, I rinse my mouth out and wash my hands, staring at my reflection and wondering what the fuck I’m going to do. Crew… is doing drugs.But why?!Why would he do this to himself? And when did it start? Has he been doing it thisentiretime, since before his overdose a year and a half ago?
The pressure behind my eyes is insurmountable as I try to get a handle on all the emotions raging through me. My blood runs cold as a soft rap sounds at the door.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck!
There’s no fucking way I can look at him and hide how I’m feeling. He’ll read it all over my face. “Uh, one sec.”
“You okay?” His rough, sleep coated voice makes my eyes sting worse. I can’t fucking do this.
“Yup. Fine.”
Maybe if I wait long enough, he’ll be passed back out by the time I come out. Running some more water over my face and brushing my teeth again, my body still feels as wired and in shock as it did ten minutes ago. My palms are sweaty and fucking shaky, my stomach is sour, and I’m genuinely concerned my body is going to betray me and start crying when I walk out there.
We need to talk about what I found, what this means, and where to go from here, but in the middle of the night, when emotions are high, probably isn’t the best basis for a discussion of this sort. But I can’t hide forever. Running my unsteady hands through my messy hair, I count to three in my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
You can do this.
My hand reaches for the bitter cold doorknob, twisting it, and pulling it open. The room is dark, so my eyes take a moment to adjust, but Crew is awake, messing around on his phone.Of course, he’s still awake.
Climbing into bed, my mind is uncomfortably numb. Knox was right… I don’t have any experience with addicts. I don’t know how to confront him. I don’t know how to help him.