It had become the only thing in her life that she really cared about.
All three of her brothers were dead.
Her mother had had a nervous breakdown.
Her father was in prison.
And how could she face her sister knowing that she could have stopped what had happened to her when she was a child and yet had stood by and done nothing?
She was as complicit in Naomi being hurt as her grandfather was.
Despite all of that, shehadtried so many times to kick her habit. But besides guilt, she had to deal with fevers, weak and painful muscles, nausea, and over the top anxiety. In the end, she could never take it, and she always returned to the one thing that made her feel safe.
She had lost count of the number of times she had been in and out of rehab.
Ruth had also lost count of the number of times she had overdosed. Accidentally overdosed. Or at least kind of accidental.
Each time she wished it had been the end.
The end of her life.
She hated life.
And yet she couldn’t outright kill herself. That would destroy what was left of her family. So, she fought on, day by day, attempting rehab sporadically primarily for the sake of her mother and sister.
High or not high she needed a man in her life.
She needed something to keep her warm and her fears at bay as she lay in bed at night, coming down from her opiate-induced high with her guilt creeping back in. So, she kept a steady stream of boyfriends, most drug addicts like herself.
It was a sorry excuse for a life.
She knew it was, yet she had no real desire to better herself.
Easing herself out from under the heavy arm of the man in the bed beside her, she searched around for her clothes. She found her underwear and skirt fairly quickly, but it took her a good five minutes or so to locate her sweater. At least she found it, half-hidden under a bureau. As she stood, Ruth caught sight of herself in the mirror. She was so skinny, each of her ribs was clearly visible. Her face was drawn and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked so much older than her thirty-two years.
She may not be killing herself outright, but she was killing herself nonetheless.
Throwing on her sweater, she didn’t have a coat, and her stiletto heels were not the most practical to wear home in the snow, but she didn’t have a choice. The guy in the bed, she’d forgotten his name already, had picked her up outside of the rehab facility she had just ditched and brought her straight here. She didn’t have any money on her to call a cab, so she would have to walk back to her apartment.
This was exactly when unless she was high she always felt ugh. Nothing ever seemed to go her way.
Ruth grabbed her bag and her shoes and snuck out of the room, tiptoeing down the hall to the front door. She didn’t want to wake up the guy. She was ashamed of once again falling into bed with someone she didn’t know. But sex was the only thing other than her drugs that gave her any relief from her miserable life.
Too bad both were temporary.
She needed something that lasted.
Something that could give her a high that wouldn’t end until she died.
Stepping out into the cold morning, Ruth shivered. She really should have planned this better. What was she thinking falling into bed with a stranger again? Wasn’t she ever going to learn her lesson? Well, she knew what she was thinking, she was thinking that she didn’t want to think, and sex was an alternative to her pills to make that happen.
Sometimes she wondered what her life could be like if she kicked her addiction. She could meet someone, fall in love, get married, have a family of her own. She could maybe even get a job. Given that she’d been addicted to painkillers since she was ten years old, she had never had a real job, she’d barely finished high school, and only because her parents insisted. She worked intermittently at waitressing or checkout jobs, just to earn enough money to buy oxy from her dealer. But having a real job, a job she actually liked could be pretty cool.
Maybe it was something to consider. She was only thirty-two, she still had time to have all of those things.
It all came down to a choice. OxyContin or a real life.
That that was actually a decision she couldn’t comprehend making was depressing.