Junkie Book Of Days
February 23rd
Their apartment was dingy, as if the primary leaseholders were rats and cockroaches instead of two fully functioning adults. In the kitchen the sink
trap was a clogged mess of minced noodles and onion skins, and on both sides of the sink were stains that had long since set into the pores of the
linoleum surrounding it. Cupboards empty, like the sunken eyes of the man slouched in the corner, and the refrigerator hummed a continuous reminder to
the electricity wasted in a fruitless attempt to preserve nothing but the stale smell of rotten lettuce. Outside the tattered screen protecting the
only window in the apartment, the lights from the commuter train move swiftly past the rigid hills that surrounded the city, propelled forward by the
communal need of all to leave the area.
“What time is it?” she asked, looking up from her hands as she plucked at scabs and swollen fingers.
The man glanced at the watch choking his wrist, letting out a tired sigh as the realization of just how long they’d be sitting in silence finally
sunk in.
“12 26”
“Fuck” she murmured, voice cracking from a smoke dried throat. “We called him almost 2 fucking hours ago, how could it possibly take this long?” Her
eyes burned with desperation as the fallen scabs littered the floor.
“Drug dealer time honey” He said calmly, trying to appease the beast within her. She’d been extremely moody lately, he thought, noting the blackened
tint of blood underneath her fingernails. And it’s been getting worse. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept a full 8 hours, the last time
she’d eaten anything more substantial than bread. Hell, he grimaced; he couldn’t even remember the last time they screwed.
“Well fuckin call him then. It’s getting late, I can’t wait around forever.”
“Oh like you have anything better to do” he replied sharply. “And quit picking at your hand, you gotta let that shit heal.”
She shoved her hands into the front pocket of the grimy white sweatshirt that kept her warm, shame swimming through her at the realization that she
was not the only one in the room, that he was keen to her filthy habits.
“Well maybe if Benson would get here already” she began to retort, but the man’s voice cut her off.
“You’d pick at ‘em even more. You don’t realize it, but you do. I’ve seen you tweaked on the stuff, it’s like you’ve got a goddamn army of insects
crawling under your skin. How do you think those scabs came about in the first place?”
“Just call him already” she whimpered in defeat, eyes cast down to the floor.
“Give it 20 minutes,” he said, “then I will. Benson runs on his own time, you know that as well as I do. He may not be the definition of a tight
schedule, but he’ll get here eventually, one way or another.”
Silence fell upon the room again, and the scabs continued to drop like leaves.
February 28th
It’s been three hours, forty-two minutes and roughly seventeen seconds since my last bump. Thirty something hours since the last time my head hit a
pillow, and it feels like every second I’ve spent awake has finally come crashing down upon my shoulders. Firm and unforgiving, the granite bench
provides little comfort as the sun begins to wage its war against my night ravaged pupils. High pitched squeals of laughter float into my eardrums
from the children’s playground a few feet ahead of me, a mockery to the innocence I lost years ago. Their parents talk amongst themselves, watching
their little bundles of joy, all the while casually sneaking glances at the haggard frame, once human, sitting at the park bench. Under their
scrutinizing gaze I begin to evaluate my appearance, trying to put myself inside the mind of a cautious parent. Will my children turn out like this
man? Hair crusted with dirt straight down to the root, the lack of a shower most likely caused by a stack of unpaid water bills sitting somewhere in
the house.
I suppose I could’ve put on something a little more presentable before we left this morning, but it’s hard to think that far ahead with a one track
mind racing towards a drug induced pit stop.
With a nervous tension that an infant could sense I spring from the bench, hands jammed into my pockets. Carol is taking longer than usual, and an
unsettling ball of anxiety lodges itself into the back of my mind. Maybe our daily routine of pocketing fruit from the farmer’s market across the
street has come back to haunt us. The street rat has finally been found out, the faithful sidekick is nowhere to be found and the Imperial guard,
eager to take the hand that steals, is just around the corner.
Just as I’m about to make a paranoid break for the nearest Muni stop, Carol’s fiery red hair comes bobbing across the street towards me, her purse
bulging with a variety of exotic fruits.
“Got lunch.” She says, smirking as I wrap my arms around her waist.
“Good, I was worried they were gonna cut off your hand for stealing.” My lips find their way to hers in between words.
“We’re not living in Saudi Arabia, it’s much worse here. We’ve got jails.” She rolled her eyes towards a patrol car driving by.
“Well in that case we’d better get somewhere we can eat in private.” My hand encloses around hers as we began to make our way out of the park. The
pain in my bones has mysteriously dissipated in her presence, the phantom nail removed from the front of my skull.
A single cloud hastily makes its way across the sky, and for once I think that sobriety isn’t half bad.
March 4th
Carol sticks the tip of the syringe down into the creamy concoction sitting in the spoon.
Anxiety hits. Palms sweating. I take a nervous gulp of air.
“You ready?” She asks, flicking the syringe a few times. Just to be safe.
“As long as you don’t miss the vein again.” I respond, voice shaking.
The needle punctures flesh. Home run. Her thumb slams the junk into my system with ease.
A few seconds of silence.
Euphoria is the demented, 2nd cousin to what this feels like.
It is nameless.
It is everything.
I can’t feel my front teeth.
A cold sweat runs from the hairline at the back of my neck all the way down to my belt.
Taking a deep breath I let myself absorb into the mattress. Gravity ceases to exist and I’m on the moon, if only for these next few minutes.
Carol turns on the fan and fixes up another bump.
“I think I’m ready to do it myself.” She says. There’s a tone of delight in her voice, like she just aced a test or finally got a driver’s license.
For the first time in my life I realize why teachers choose that career path. It feels good, showing someone how to do something, helping them every
step of the way until the day eventually comes when they can take the wheel without you.
A sickening sense of pride washes over my body as she slumps down onto the bed next to me, drifting away into a comatose only the addict could
understand.
March 10th
The lights flickered on and off in time with the rocking of our inbound train. The car smelled of urinal cakes, I had the homeless man sitting across
from me to thank for that. Carol and I had developed a habit of riding the train from one end of the track to the other, trying to pass the time
between hits, doing anything we could to keep our minds off the bleak outlook our future had for drug consumption.
Carol’s head rolled onto my shoulder. The gaunt point of my collarbone pushed into her temple, jarring her from sleep.
“How much longer?” She asked, covering her yawn with a scab crusted hand.
“Forever” I responded. “This train goes straight to hell.”
Her arm snaked through mine.
“Good” she said drearily, beginning her slow drift into sleep once more. “I could use a change of scenery.”
March 24th
A plate explodes next to my head, grease dripping from the point of impact down the wall, settling into the cracks and imperfections in the paint
“Are you even fucking listening to me?!” Carol howls from the other side of the room, already arming herself with another glass dish from the
kitchen.
I shudder back to reality, remembering where I am. This is my house. I’m in our room, slumped against the wall. Carol’s angry, but the reason why
still hasn’t come back. I’ve got a hunch that is has something to do with the junk though. A big hunch.
“Whaddya want?” I slur. My hands find themselves against the floor, but the strength to bring myself up from a sitting position evaporates almost as
quickly as it came. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
“You’re unbelievable” she mutters, turning back to the kitchen.
“No, Carol wait…” My body lifts a little higher off the ground this time, but I still can’t seem to get up. “I need help.” I moan pathetically.
She comes back from the kitchen, tossing a piece of bread in my direction.
“Here’s your fucking help. Now find some money. We’re out.”
“Out of what?” I ask, mouth full of bread, already knowing the answer.
“Diapers. What the fuck do you think we’re out of? Like I said, find some money. Rob a bank for all I care, just get it done.”
“Anything for you sweetie.” The bedroom door slams, shutting out my retort. A window opens in the other room, followed by the flick of a lighter. The
smell of smoke filters in through the crack underneath the door.
Where’d she get the money for cigarettes?
April 5th
Pale skin and blue lips.
A tourniquet strangling her arm like a boa.
No venom
just life stopping strength.
The syringe protrudes from her body like a tumor,
a yellow foam bubbles from her lips
down the side of her face,
pooling into a stagnant puddle
that has soaked into the mattress.
Her eyes stay fixed on the open doorway
as I cautiously walk to the foot of the bed,
a choked sigh pushing its way
past my pursed lips.
This loss is heavier than that of a bad score,
heavier than the bone breaking chill
of withdrawals,
more crushing than the countless friends
I’ve lost and the countless others
who will undoubtedly follow
in her footsteps.
The phone slips from my shaking hand,
I grab it with both fists, forcing myself to dial the number.
A woman’s voice on the other end.
Calm. Unaware.
For a moment I think its Carol,
that she’s come back,
that she isn’t lying on my vomit and piss soaked mattress.
They sound so similar.
“Carol?” I ask, hoping this is just some sick joke.
“What about her?”
The stern tone of the woman’s voice shatters any hopes I may have had.
I pull the syringe from her arm, unwrap the tourniquet then tie it around my bicep. There’s still some junk left.
“Something happened to your daughter.”
April 15th
I hitched a ride upstate after your parents came to take you away.
It was harder than I thought. And quiet too. 3 hours spent in a silent attempt to avoid eye contact, especially with your dad. It was all my fault; I
didn’t need the broken look on both their faces to tell me that.
I thought you could handle it, that you and I were on the same wavelength. The way you set yourself up before each hit, like you’d been at it for
years.
You had me fooled from the very beginning.
I should’ve gone slower, easing into it, taken you out to an empty lot and let you work on your braking technique instead of throwing you onto a
traffic-ridden freeway. There’s no use in crying about it now, no point to reminisce.
I made it as far as Humboldt before my ride grew tired of my junkie antics. You’d love it here. It’s like spring never left, no fire has scorched the
earth, pollution is as foreign to this place as Death Valley. Every part of my wishes I could turn back time, ensuring that spring would always be
sprung and that you would always be with me. We could itch our eyes and let the pollen make us miserable together. I’m just sneezing for two now.
I should’ve taken it slower.
April 17th
My breath comes in ragged heaps, forcing its way out of my body like it was never meant to leave in the first place. I can feel each hair in my head
growing, millimeter by millimeter. It doesn’t take long before I find myself with clumps of it in my fists, hot tears blurring my vision. The skin
flakes from my face as hours of heat from the fire take their toll.
At least in the city I had public transit to take my mind off things. There’s nothing out here, no sirens to drown out the noise of my racing heart,
no knife wielding street urchins to keep me on my toes. No distractions, no mind numbing drug paralysis, just the words rambling through my still
reeling mind.
Feeding more wood to the fire’s roaring appetite, I slither into my sleeping bag and prepare myself for the long night to come.
April 21st
I knew nothing on the art of pitching a tent, and the wind was taking malicious advantage of that. Dragging logs in from around the field, I hurl them
onto the excess tarp, weighing it down. It’s been two weeks, three days, seven hours, 3 minutes and fifty-two seconds since my last hit, and recovery
isn’t going any easier but it needs to happen.
I need her out of my mind.
The frigid mask of death forever frozen on her face needs to be erased from my memory, and I need to rip away the mask of mourning adhered to mine.
She’s in everything around me, tree branches swaying in the wind like her hair flung back at the beach, the birds chirp her laugh, her sleeping
silhouette framed into the mountain ridges overwhelming the coast, sun setting upon the hills that were her hips.
My hands cramp while balled into fists, fingernails slowly slicing into soft flesh. Blood begins to trickle and drop from the whites of my knuckles
and I haven’t felt a thing.
Agony is the incestuous offspring of discomfort and agitation compared to what this feels like.
April 24th
I’m surprised to find the door intact. No busted locks or shattered windows to greet me upon entry. Just a stale smell and a hollow silence, your
silence, ringing in my ears.
Prying loose a leg from the coffee table, I throw it into the fireplace, dousing it with lighter fluid before letting loose the fire. My sleeping
bag, still stained with sweat, is the only comfort I can afford. The mattress carries with it a history of what was and what shall no longer be, and I
curl up next to the crackling fire and let the tears fall.
April 25th
The needle hisses and whispers, injecting lies into my ears, a reminder to the pain I’ve been trying to push away. This is who I am, what I’ve
become, this has no escape. I tried to run but my legs lost power, lungs collapsing into charred bits and bleeding tissue.
The last remains of her stash eye me from their throne on the uncovered mattress. A vomit stain rides shotgun next to the zipped satchel, her last
will and testament. My arm begins an incessant itch; holes that have healed slowly begin to tear open. Pressure releases. Slamming the door behind me
I can hear the needle scream from the other room. Blood bubbles from burst ear drums.
youve never turned ussssss downnnnn it says behind its barricade of wood. youve known NOTHING other than the warmth of my embraaaace.
The bedroom door flies from its hinges, the screaming turns to a window shattering shriek. The walls tremble, water mains burst in the ceiling,
showering me in a septic, sordid sludge.
I nod in weary resignation, ripping my belt from its loops and tightening it around the soft spot just above my elbow.
The satchel unzips, the lighter brings heat to the spoon and three weeks, eight hours, fifteen minutes and forty-four seconds go howling out the
window.
|
![[*]](images/black/default_icon.gif){kind=icon}
