When I first started using drugs, it was to manage the pain from my football accident. It was what they were prescribed for. Then it morphed into numbing the physicalandmental pain. Eventually, the physical pain went away, as did my Dr. Dealer, but the mental pain stayed—and intensified—and I needed more.
After my overdose, I questioned whether I was subconsciously trying to die. If I’m purposely killing myself slowly. I never found the answer to that question, but I’m starting to think the answer isyes. I’m slowly killing myself because I can’t stand who I’ve become, but I’m too much of a coward to pull the trigger, so to speak.
If I died, the only person who might feel slightly hurt would be Anderson. But he’d get over it. He’d find someone else—someone healthier—and he’d be happy. He wouldn’t be lied to constantly. He wouldn’t have to worry if he’s going to find them cold and blue on the floor with foam coming out of their mouth and their lifeless eyes stuck open.
In the far back of my deranged mind, I do feel guilty about what I’m putting him through. That’s the thing about drugs, though… they numb, they erase, they make you shamelessly selfish. As much as the sane part of my mind doesn’t want to hurt him, the demon in me doesn’t give a fuck. It cares about one thing, and one thing only… the high.
After I left his house last night, I didn’t sleep.Couldn’tsleep. I’m fucking furious that he felt he had any right to go through my shit. Then the way he tried to fucking manipulate me with his poor, puppy dog eyes. Fuck that.
How’s he going to sit there on his fucking high horse, with his family that loves him, with not a care in the goddamn world, and look down onme? Judgemefor my choices? He doesn’t get to say shit about my decisions when he hasn’t lived a day in my shoes.
My lonely, fucking not good enough, royally fucked up shoes.
It’s almost noon, and he’s called me about a dozen times. The text messages are never-ending. One minute he’s demanding I answer the phone, the next he’s cussing me out. They all, however, have been ignored. Big fucking surprise—my parents aren’t here. Who the fuck knows where they are. Not me. Don’t fucking care either. Being alone has become my norm. I can be who I really am when I’m alone. No masks, no lying, no fake happiness.
Lifting the Jack Daniels bottle to my lips, I take three large swallows, reveling in the burn as it slides down my throat. Setting it down with a shaky hand on the table where I’m sitting outside, I reach into my pants pocket and pull out my favorite little baggie.Bow Downby I Prevail is vibrating through the outdoor sound system, turned up loud enough for the neighbors to complain, but I don’t fucking care.
After dumping the rest of the white powder on the glass table, I get to work cutting lines. My mouth waters at the sight, my palms sweating in anticipation. Between the Jack and the cocaine already swimming through my bloodstream, my mind is numb and my body is buzzing.
Three fat lines sit before me as my phone goes off again. “Fuck me. Can’t everyone just leave me the fuck alone?” Grabbing it where it’s laying face down on the table, I flip it over and see it’s just a text from Kalen.
Kalen: Need anything? Coming up that way later this evening to do a drop.
Me: Ya, actually, I do. Eight ball of white. What time?
Kalen: Probably closer to six. That all?
Me: Yup. See ya then. Thanks, bro.
Fuck, yeah. Setting my phone down, I pick up the rolled-up twenty that’s sitting on the table, snorting one line after another, until all three have disappeared. My index finger collects the residue left on the table, rubbing it onto my gums, and smiling when my mouth numbs like the rest of me.
I spend the next couple of hours doing a whole lot of nothing—listening to music, guzzling more Jack, and purposely ignoring all my problems. My ability to pretend life doesn’t happen around me is impressive at this point.
It’s about a quarter past five, and I’m washing two percs down with a swig of Jack, when the backdoor slides open. My head snaps toward the house at the sound, knowing nobody is home, shocked to see Anderson walk out. His head is hung low, hands in his pockets, and he looks like he’s got about as much sleep as I have in the last twenty-four hours.
Lifting my chin in a nod, I look away, saying, “Hey.”
“I’ve tried calling you all day.” He stops in front of me, hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“I know.”
“Can I sit down?”
My hand gestures to the seat across from me. “Be my guest.”
It isn’t until he’s sitting that I realize the card I used to cut the lines and the rolled-up bill are still sitting on the table. His eyes immediately find them, gaze darting to me seconds later. The color drains from his face, and he looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“What have you been doing all day?”
“This.” What’s the point of lying?
“Are you…” His voice cracks and he clears his throat, trying again. “Are you high right now?”
Studying him for a moment, the hurt and the disappointment are written all over his face. He’s confused, sad, scared, and I wish I could help him feel better. I really do. But I am who I am. My demons have a hold on me, and they aren’t letting go. At this point, I don’t know if I’d evenwantthem to let me go.
“Yeah,” I finally respond. “I am.”
He winces like I slapped him across the face. “On what?”