Break Free & Be Broken (6 page)

I hate Her because I love Her, and I know I always will.

I slap my cheeks with both hands, hard enough to rattle teeth, snapping myself out of this ludicrous display of self-pity. What am I doing? Who's to say a reason for my downfall even exists? I just don't feel good. No one ever said there had to be a reason why. Perhaps this world just wasn't meant for me. Perhaps my dreams are just too big for it to fill... or maybe I just never had the strength to reach them. Who fucking cares? The only relevant information is that I fear the decay of the future, I don't care for the present, and the joys of the past are already gone. Fuck that. Fuck this. I'm done.

I should just smoke some heroine and figure out how I wanna suicide myself...

Ding ding ding ding ding! Security lights flash on in my head, revealing this whole outburst for what it is. I don't really want to die! I'm being absurd! This whole thing is a giant ploy from the addict part of me to get me to abandon my day and just sit around and smoke! Aha! I knew I couldn't really be that far gone. Heroine, you sneaky vixen! You almost had me! Certainly I can get on with my day and work out. I was all worked up over nothing! Haha! Ha.. ha...

10 minutes pass, and I find myself laying on the couch, traced up foil in my hand, sinking blissfully into oblivion. Oh yeah. Now this is what I'm talking about.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm dissatisfied, but fuck it, heh, too late to stop me now. Riding the slippery ride of compulsive recklessness, I decide to exceed my one hit limit. I pull off another scrap of tar from the whole and place it on the foil. My movements are slow and fluid, as if the air around me has taken on the properties of sludge. Tube goes in my mouth, lighter falls beneath the tin, and I draw my second line. The hit is harsh on my throat. Even the heavy sedative action of the drug isn't enough to quell the scalding burn, and it is only with maximum effort that I'm able to hold in the smoke. I want to take another hit to wash the pain away but I’m scared that will only make it worse. If only there was a way I could get higher without smoking....

For one full and solid second, all I can do is stare at my beautiful mind. In the next, I am on my feet, rushing into my room as fast as my doped up body will allow. I explode into the closet, ripping open drawers, searching, searching, for tools long forgotten.

Back in my drug using prime, I was no stranger to intoxication by needle, and I'm pretty sure I still have a couple tucked away somewhere. I tear through my closet like a man insane but find nothing. Shit! I don't think any amount of drug could hold back the frenzied frustration that comes about when you can't find something. God I hate searching! Especially when it's my only reasonable means to an end. Having to drive to the store to buy needles sounds so anticlimactic and terrible it isn't even worth considering. I either have to find my needles or wait for the pain in my throat to run its course and then continue smoking. That sounds anticlimactic and terrible as well. I should have planned this better, though in my defense, I guess I never saw it coming.

Like a ray of light on a tundra, inspiration falls upon me. I drop onto my knees and scramble to the bed, throwing a hand underneath to begin its purposeful shuffle. I seem to recall... YES! My hand lands on an old shoe box. I pull the dust covered thing out and open it up. Inside is everything I need for a proper shot of feel good to the heart. I'm equal parts excitement and dread. If this wasn't real before, it certainly is now.

Frantic, strung out memories from my junkie days flash through my mind as I prepare the dose. There is no joy inside me as I go through the motions of getting the drug and needle ready. I can see the future shooting out before me, furious and dark. I may very well be letting the life of a junkie reclaim me and pull me down to my demise. The fact I am doing this is proof enough that I am doomed. I let myself slide last night and the whole system fell apart.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I start out putting just the usual amount in the spoon. I pause, thinking that since it’s been so long since I last shot up, maybe I should use less-ease myself back into it. I pause the pause, the true depth of this moment's potential sinking in with a death like finality.

I could kill myself right now. I look down at the glob of black in my lap. I add a little more to the spoon, then I add a lot: all of it. Not even the hardest users I ever knew could stomach this much and be okay. The perfection of the plan is hard to ignore.

My strength is lost. I don't have enough to rebuild my regimen, I don't have enough to drag me to my shitty fucking job, and I certainly don't have enough to fight off another full wave of this addiction. It wasn't a lie or a trick when I realized I wanted to die. It was the truth, and now I have a way to make it happen.

I've been scraping by with crippled legs and swollen lungs for far too long. This is my moment. This is my chance to get out-peacefully, easily-carried by the only companion I have left.

I look down at my arm. With great pride, I see that tying it up is unnecessary-my veins are already bulging as it is-but for old time sake, I tie it off anyway. I take a long moment to stare down at my arm. I flex my wrist and watch cords of muscle contract under webs of vein. It fills me with tears. I did good with my body. This baby would have lasted me forever if I let it. It is my mind that couldn't handle what was what, and unfortunately, mind and body are one. I can't eliminate one without eliminating the other, so tonight, they both go.

Enough dilly dallying. It's time to end this.

I don't bother filtering my heroine when it’s prepared; I just put the needle in the liquid and draw it up. Fuck it. I pick a vein, stick the needle in, and press down. Euphoria hits fast and hard, followed immediately by a grim sadness the likes of which I have never felt.

What have I done?

I don't get to answer. I don't need to. A second wave of euphoria hits with the next strong, steady beat of my powerful heart. I say a silent prayer of gratitude to my sweet drug for taking care of me in this final moment. I think the sadness is still there, lingering somewhere in the background, but it is all but drowned out entirely by the mass amounts of artificial feel good pumping through me. My old heart slows as sedation takes him, moving him toward the rest he has so long deserved. You did good for me buddy. Hope you don't mind we’re going out like this, but I'm tired. I can’t fight the sleep. This is it. Good job.

A ferocious swell of nausea lands upon me. And then—

Hell.

The truth of what's happening hits me like a thunder clap. There isn't pleasure. There isn't pain. There is only Death, standing above me. I look him in his wretched face, and I'm gone.

Chapter the Third

The first thing I'm aware of is the severe-nay- the
absolutely horrific
pounding in my head. The next thing I know is that all I want in this whole damn world is more heroine. It's the only thing that can possibly save me right now. More drugs. I want it! I need it!

Oh shit. Too much thinking...

Time to puke.

I heave and I heave and I heave. Incredibly, nothing comes of it save a mammoth pain in my gut and lungs. Stuck on hands and knees, I open my eyes. Only darkness. My vision has failed me! I panic and reel my head about, searching for some proof I'm not blind, and find it immediately in the form of the outside world peeking in through the window. Thank god. I can hardly see because it's almost night... but Jesus... that means I was out for hours.

When my eyes adjust to the dim light, I learn why my stomach had nothing to give. It had already given more than its fair share while I was out. A sour pile of egg, bread, acid, and juice is laid out before me, much of which is coated to the side of my head.

The good news: all I want right now is to die. I fucking wish I was dead.

The bad news: I'm not. And now I have to try again.

A wise man once said that nothing worth doing can be done with egg on your face-especially if that egg be partially digested vomit egg-so I resolve to wash myself before I end myself. Maybe... eh, probably unnecessary, but fuck. I'll go out with whatever dignity I can manage to scrounge up.

On legs as wobbled as a baby deer, I make my way toward the shower. Twice I'm forced to stop by wrecking heaves. God, this is the worst. Hangover times a million times a billion. Each step brings its own unique assortment of sickness and pain. My head is fragmented glass being fed to a blender. My entire body aches. I must have been heaving for hours in my unconscious state, sleeping without rest, hour upon hour of contracting, flexing, and retching.

I reach the bathroom and slap the light into action. I stop as I pass by the mirror-not by choice-but because the image it holds is so startling it arrests my attention. There was a time I was considered attractive. You would never believe it now. The whole left side of my head is covered in vomit, causing my short brown hair to stick up at random angles. My face is sunken and pale, extenuating the edges of my already sharp features.

And then there’s my eyes.

The vibrant green they once were has faded, almost to gray, matching the dark circles around them. They are showing all the sadness I've accumulated in life and reflecting it back at me-not as I am now-but as the child I once was. I can clearly see that little man, so naive, so innocent, so full of hopes and life. He's still there. He never left and hardly changed, except now he is crushed, looking back at me disappointed and sad, asking what the hell happened.

Sorry, little man. I don't know what happened. I didn't want this anymore than you. This is never how it was supposed to go. Life was supposed to be much, much better, and as you know, that's always how we thought it would be.

I rip my eyes from the loathsome boy, strip off my stale clothes, and half jump, half fall into the shower. Sprawled out awkwardly, I turn on the water and let its icy wrath fall upon me. I've taken a cold shower thousands of times, and yet, every single time the cold water hits, I'm petrified by it. I've gotten used to the feeling, but I can't stop the reaction. Robot do what robot does.

I sit unmoving, concentrating on the cold, allowing the slow moving water particles to slow down the splitting ache in my head. The water starts to warm-something I haven't felt in a long while. It's nice. Very nice. And what's even better, it does more to ease my state than did the cold. It isn't long before it becomes too hot-I am not used to such temperature-but the thought of moving sounds less appealing than dealing with the heat, so I just let it come. Any hotter, I may have to act, but I can bear what it is for now.

Pretty soon, I get used to it, and soon after that, I like it.

I lay, I bask, and I stare. I can't think. I'm too worn and beaten to think. But I can lie... and I can appreciate the warmth.

I have no idea how long I lay. I could have sworn it was only minutes-just enough time for a few bloated thoughts to pass by like thick, rain heavy clouds-but the water is losing heat. Must've been longer than I thought. I stir, and to my relief, the condition of my body has improved. Standing up makes me a bit light headed, but I'm no longer constricted by the urge to puke. That's a beautiful thing in a time like this.

I turn off the water and climb from the shower, then take another look at the mirror. I look a little better. I’m not covered in vomit anymore, and much of my color is back. My eyes though... the despair has not left them. The boy is still there, crying out, broken and battered from years of unfulfilled desire and rough treatment. It's too much.

Acting of its own accord, my elbow flies up and connects with the mirror. The glass spider webs but doesn’t fall. I pull back my arm and release it again, this time breaking the whole mirror apart. Glass scatters from the sink to the floor: a crashing parade of broken noise. It's not enough.

Rage unspent, I turn my attention to the door. I thrust a vicious front kick into it. It blasts outward, the bottom hinge completely shorn from the wall. The upper hinge tries valiantly to hold the full weight but simply doesn't have the required bulk. It loses grip and the door falls against the wall on the other side of the hall. I blitz out and kick it again, hoping to break it in half, but it is the wall that gives, and the door bores into the sheet rock.

I stare, somewhat surprised, at the massive hole gaping at me. This is going to be a bitch to fix. But wait... I won't have to fix it. Tonight my number is up, remember?

I should destroy it all.

I run into the kitchen, naked and damp. The fridge is the first opponent to catch my eye. I yank open the door and push it far past its limit in hopes of breaking it off. It crackles and snaps but holds. Furious, I pull it toward me. Either fridges aren't as heavy as I thought or I am stronger than I thought, for it plunges toward me so fast I barely have time to jump out of the way and avoid being crushed.

Exhilarated by my power and potential brush with death, I pick up the microwave, walk into the living room, and cast it at the TV. The microwave hits the TV screen dead center and sinks inside. For an instant, they are one-America's two favorite pass times, television and eating, combined into a single entity: some demented hybrid of plastic and glass. It's beautiful.

In the next instant, they come apart, and separate they fall.

The next community of victims to fall within range of my eruption are the hardened individuals of Workoutopia. I pick up a dumbbell and throw it at the ground. It thuds loudly and bounces a bit but doesn't break in the least. Undeterred, I pick up my barbell. Gripped in both hands like a battle ax, I swing it down upon the weight rack. Again, it thuds loudly, and again, it gives a little bounce, but just like before, nothing breaks in the least.

I don't know why I never really saw it before-maybe I just didn't care-but the basic equipment one needs to exercise is the simplest shit in the world. It's primitive. Nothing but chunks of metal in various shapes and sizes, none of which is satisfyingly breakable. I'm somewhat frustrated and somewhat relieved I won't be able to destroy such a large part of my life.

Mmmm, I'm definitely more frustrated. In fact, if anything in this god forsaken condo needs to be destroyed, it's this shit right here. I throw the barbell across the room like a spear. It scatters against the floor unscathed. I pick up a weight plate and throw it against the wall. It disappears inside, but I know it's unbroken.

It is in this moment of heaving rage that I catch my reflection in the window. I see a panting disgrace who can't even figure out how to dispatch of some steel. In fury, I pick up a dumbbell and hurl it at the glass, destroying the pitiful man within and letting in a gust of frigid air. I suck in a deep draw of it. The cold in my nose calms me. This explosion of destruction is childish. I'm being a child.

My Xbox is the last valuable possession in the room, and even though I've lost my bloodlust, I pick up an 80lb dumbbell and drop it on top. It smashes through with the strength of a karate masters hand, and just like that, my box is gone. Hooray. I now have nothing left of significant value; nothing but some shoes and clothes. Well... and of course, my workout gear.

I look around at the damage I caused: gotta be at least a couple thousand dollars’ worth. This will be a real fucking mess if I survive the day. But of course I won't. I'm committed now, aren't I? Why did I destroy everything if I wasn't sure I could follow through?

But I haven't destroyed everything... If I want that final push off the edge, I need to destroy it all. But I can't...

Or can I?

My mind graces me with a burning flash of brilliance, illuminating an idea that will solve my little problem. I
can
destroy it all, and I can do it with one glorious swoop. The answer? Fire. That will eliminate all this garbage, and if anything does survive, I can accept that. If there is one thing I respect, it's strength. Anything that survives the inferno has earned its life in my book.

Wonderful. So I'm burning this bitch down. I figure the best way to get the job done is to use some good old fashioned, homemade napalm. Simple to make, simple to use. Take a pan, pour in gas. Heat it up, plop in styrofoam. Let that shit melt, give a few stirs, and boom. Napalm. It burns long and it burns hot, and that is exactly what I need right now.

I go to my pantry and start digging... Hm. No styrofoam. The chemist inside me comes prancing to life. I'll have to try something else. Which materials do I have that are similar in composition to styrofoam? Perhaps if I... wait. What the hell am I doing? I'm overthinking this. If I just pour gas everywhere and toss a match, this place will burn. It’s made of wood and carpet and filled with plastic and cloth. It shouldn't be hard to burn at all... but fuck. Getting gas, on the other hand, will be tough. I don't keep gas cans around here. The only source I can think of is the tank of my car-I believe it's at least half full.

I rub my thighs. Siphoning gas is a deed I never thought I’d have to perform. Ohhh damn, the things that must be done.

From what I've seen on TV, all I need to do the job is a hose and the courage to accept a mouthful of gas. Shouldn't be too bad; all I gotta do is spit it back out. I mean hell, people have put worse in their mouths; I can surely handle this. The only real issue is finding a hose. I think there's one attached to the side of the condo... I'm just not sure if it stays attached through the frozen months of winter.

I rush outside and look around, my finest blade in hand. Sure enough, the hose is just where I thought. No clue how long a gas pipe is, I cut off a pretty long chunk. I put my mouth to it and suck, making sure it isn't clogged. A lungful of stuffy, stale air invades my essence. It isn't tasty, but it works.

I go to my garage. I'm moving fast, giving myself as little opportunity to think as I can. Thinking could only be counterproductive at a time like this. I need to go go go go go, with serious intent, and I need get this done.

I stick the hose down into the tank. I have to take a couple deep breaths before I start to suck, nervous about what’s to come. I put my mouth to the hose and stop. Couple more breaths, then I'll be ready.

You know what, fuck it. I put the hose in my mouth and suck.

Getting the gas to my mouth is no simple task. My first couple sucks are shallow: tentative. I don't want to take more of this shit into my mouth than necessary, but when the first two pulls provide nothing, I suck hard.

A huge mouthful of acidic waste floods into me hard enough to send a fat trickle down my throat. I thought I'd have a moment to gather myself and pull away when the gas hit, allowing only a small amount into me. Not the fucking case.

My throat constricts in revulsion. The hose falls from my mouth, causing gas to pour all over my face and clothes before I get a hold of myself and aim it into the bucket. What starts as a gagging cough quickly evolves into a belly warping retch. My mouth and throat are fire, and I've got nothing but the acrid taste of chemicals to ease my pain.

Holy fucking shit. Awful. Absolutely awful. Had I known it would be this way, I don't think I would have done it. But thankfully, I didn't know, so here I am, one step closer to my goal. Take heart, Chales. You should be happy.

When the bucket is full, I lift the hose above tank height, stopping the flow of gasoline. The stench of exposed gas, mixed with the flavor in my mouth, is overwhelming. I don't waste time moving back inside. I fucking hustle. Tonight needs to be done. The frenzied state I'm in surely can't last.

Gas sloshes out of the bucket in stinky globs as I jog to the end of the hall and enter my room. I don't use a ton of the gas in here, figuring my dresser and bed will need little encouragement to rip and roar. I make a trail of gas from my room to the bathroom. I'm more generous with the gas in here. The only particularly flammable thing in the room is the cabinet under the sink; everything else is tile and porcelain. Gas pools on the floor as I pour. I'm careful not to step in it. I'm not gunna be one of those assholes who light themselves on fire.