Dear Nobody (8 page)

Dear Hayley,

Have I got a story for you! Let me begin at the beginning, and when I get to the end, I'll stop. Remember when you called me a few months ago to tell me that your friend had died, and how you thought there was some bad dope going around the east coast? Well, you were right—right as rain.

It was a Sunday. I woke-up really hung-over with scrapes all over my knees, elbow, and hands—and I was covered in black mud. I must have fallen down a hill—because the night before I had gotten extremely drunk AND I'd been tripping on micro dots. I wished I was still tripping, and wanted to buy more, but I had no beans. So I went down into the basement and got those six beers left over from the night before. I drank them all before I left the house. Then I went to the woods, where people hang out on the trails and just chill and get fucked up, or swim (it's by a river).

My usual asshole acquaintances were there—none of them who would know a drug besides pot or alcohol if it fucked them up the ass. But then on the other side of the trail was a group of college kids, so I went over and started talking to them. They were getting more alcohol, so they said they would bring me back a forty ounce—and when they came back—they brought this girl with them. The girl,
Vickie
, didn't stay long, but before she left, she asked me if I wanted to go into Philly with her to get dope. I finished my forty, and off we went. By then I was buzzing, but I still really wanted dope.

When we got to the city, her dealer sold her one or two bags. He gave me one to be nice (because I was sick), and she was a good customer. Well, it was the first time I ever booted myself up and I don't know if I felt much effect at the beginning—the part that's supposed to be like, “WHOA”—because alcohol numbs, and I was
almost
drunk. Regardless, I felt good—better, at least.

We drove back to Phoenixville to meet up with her friend,
Geoff
, and after awhile we all decided to go back into Philly to get some more dope. On the way we stopped at my house and I snagged twenty dollars from my mom's purse (I still feel really bad about that) and we were on our way, again.

Geoff bought two bags. My new girlfriend, Vickie, bought one. I bought two (me being my dumb-ass self). Geoff booted up first—then Vickie went. I wanted to wait. I KNEW I should wait, but I was so impatient, that I asked him to boot me up with both of my bags. Geoff did and I felt really good. The heroin was called OAK TREE. I started to nod off, and when I opened my eyes it was night time. About fifteen minutes had gone by, but it felt more like an hour. I remember the guy slapping my face trying to wake me up, but I just kept nodding off.

The next thing I remember is being in some parking garage getting lifted from the back seat into a wheelchair.

I remember lots of yelling and when I opened my eyes I was being wheeled into an emergency room. Then I remembered the nurses taking my clothes off and all these people around me. It was like that TV show “E.R.”

These are the bits and pieces that I remember: I remember my mom coming in and crying. I remember the machines beeping. I remember coming down, or back to, whatever…My mom told me that my grandpop came in all the way from New Jersey, because they thought I was going to die. I don't remember that.

Then the doctors put me in an ambulance and sent me to another hospital. I barely remember the ambulance ride. When I got to the other hospital I went back to sleep, but I woke up when one of the machines started beeping. A nurse ran in. I was going back into respiratory distress. They put these oxygen canals on me and equipment to monitor my heart. I remember trying to tear them off. Then I fell back asleep.

I still felt high the next day; my pupils were still the size of pin-points. But I came down, eventually (unfortunately), and the hospital said they had to send me to a residential treatment center for insurance reasons. Of course I fiercely refused, but I'm not eighteen, and they threatened to have me committed. So I agreed to go.

And guess where I ended up? THE CURON FOUNDATION!
Again
.

Can you believe it? It sucks here so BAD. I'll be here

for fourteen days. They call it “stabilization.”

If I thought this place was bad before—now it's even worse—it's like Concentration Camp Curon. The staff has changed and the rules are much stricter. We don't even have rec with the guys, and for cigarette breaks—we have to go on the other side of the building. But that's not all. The people who were in last time were like way cooler then the asshole losers in here now. The boys aren't even that attractive (with the exception of one, but he's full of himself). We never get to look at them anyway. Only one other girl, besides me, is in here for dope. ONE OTHER GIRL!!! The rest of them are just like these preppy little bitches that got drunk or smoked pot once or twice—before their mommy and daddy found out and sent them to rehab. So as you can imagine, I feel VERY lonely.

I know you know how it feels to be here—missing dope and not being able to relate to anyone because they're all so fucking lame.

Fucking Nurse Janis put me on three hour isolation today, because she heard I was talking during a lecture. Who THE FUCK do I have to talk to? I'm so lonely here. It's like living with all those bitchy, preppy girls from high school that ever called me a freak and tried to make me feel inferior and less of a human being.

Sometimes people's cruelty just shocks me so much—that I start to think that it must be me? Sometimes I feel paranoid

because I had a bad trip a while ago, and I don't know if the paranoia just decided to stay, or if I'm just being realistic?

I bet I'm just being realistic.

And those little bitches can bet their cardboard lives that if they keep fucking with me, I'll give them something “realistic.”

Fuck man, nobody even stays up at night. Just me. Oh, I'm so pissed off and lonely here. Nobody understands me here. Fucking SHIT! I wish I could just call you. I can't even call my mom. Well, I should go. Fucking lights out. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with the light on so I can see what I'm writing—
this is so fucked up.

Please don't forget about me. I love you forever.

XOXOXO

Mary Rose.

PS. I wish you were here (!)

(Just kidding—kinda.)