Fiend (29 page)

I’m about to push open the door when KK stops me. Her head shakes. She won’t meet my eyes.

Baby?

Her blond hair moving.

What? We’re here. We’re good, come on.

I pull at her arm. She lets go of my hand. She must be
scared about what’s outside and maybe about what we’ll do once our meth runs out. I say, It’s fine, we’ll figure it out, we always do.

I can’t.

Can’t what?

Do it anymore.

I laugh like she’s being crazy and I tell her I’m scared too.

I’m not scared.

Then what the fuck?

That. I can’t do
that
anymore. She points to the door.

KK …

I’m serious, Chase.

I stare at her nose because I know looking into her eyes will be too much.

She says, It will be the same. You realize that. The same fucking thing. The same shit.

No, we beat this shit. We’ll go north and we’ll find other—

That’s not what I’m talking about.

The fuck is your—

Our.

Our?

Our
fucking problem.

KK takes the scante out of my hand. It’s like a mallet in her fist. She says, This. I can’t fucking do
this
. Live this way. Live out there. I can’t fucking do it anymore.

I try to take her in my arms and she says, It’s not worth it. I tell her we’ll be together. She’s shaking her head and backing up and I tell her we’ll control it, only one shot every other day, just so we don’t turn. She keeps walking back and I’m getting
angry because we’re so fucking close. I say, We’ll die in here, just like everyone else.

Already dead, Chase. Both of us.

Jesus Christ, we have to at least try.

We did.

Yeah, and we’re right here. The fucking exit. We’re good. Just come on—

I know you stole the shit, blamed it on Maddie, she says.

What? No—

Still fucking lying to me.

No, yeah, fuck. It’s just like … We’re so fucking close and I love you and, Jesus Christ, please.

I stop talking. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying.

Stole the shit too, KK says.

What?

Followed you into the kitchen, stole some after you left. Then just stood there and watched Maddie get killed.

He didn’t get killed, he was the one—

We both did. We fucking killed the kid.

That’s just the shit talking, like you’re in one of your states—

I’m clear as day, Chase.

I can’t fucking believe this, I say.

She stares at me.

I love you so much, I say. So fucking much. I’ll do anything for you, you know that, you’re all I care about. We’ll get through this. We can make this
work
. We’ll fucking change and this shit wasn’t our fault, baby, just please, fuck, let’s go.

KK bites her bottom lip. I think about just picking her up
and dragging her outside. I know this look from a year ago when I was sitting on the couch and she was begging me to stop and I was high and wanting to get higher and I couldn’t fucking quit and she was giving me the same ultimatum as now.

KK says, You made this choice once already.

Jesus Christ, it’s fucking different and you know it.

It’s not.

This is the only way we can
survive
. Fucking
survive
, KK. It’s not about getting high and it’s not—

Not surviving.

KK.

Drugs or me?

Fucking ridiculous.

I start toward the door.

To die out there on the streets or die right here?

Enough. Let’s go.

A simple question, Chase.

I close my eyes. I think about what awaits us outside of the door—the walking dead, the search for shelter and more dope, endless running, the hope that somehow shit gets better—and I know that life, I do, and it’s not great, never was even before, but I can’t stop. I can’t give up. I can’t sit here waiting to die.

I don’t say anything.

She’s crying now. She nods. She walks toward me. She says, That’s what I thought. She rises to her tiptoes and kisses my lips. It’s the softest of touches and it’s everything that’s been good in my life and it’s the promise of new beginnings. Then she backs away and motions to the door. Maybe she just needed me to admit it. She’s still holding her shotgun and we
will conquer the fucking world because that’s what we tell ourselves and I press the exit push bar and, holding hands, we step into our futures. We’re better versions of ourselves and I’m already looking around the street for motherfuckers who want to kill us when she squeezes my hand as hard as she can. This is her way of telling me she loves me and that we’ll be okay and in that moment I love her more than anything. Then she lets go of my hand and we’re on the seventh floor of the psych ward and we’re exercising trust for the first time, trust we’ll make it, that love is enough, and I turn to tell KK that we were right then about everything, but she’s not at my side. She has caught the door and is slipping behind it and I glimpse the crucifixes of her collarbones and then her slender neck and her sharp chin and then her human nose and she says, I’m so fucking sorry.

The door closes. There’s no handle on the outside. I pound on it. I’m smashing my fists and kicking my feet against it and I’m bellowing. I picture her on the other side crumpled into nothing and I see her at the end of the couch begging for me to quit and I’m on the ground now, yelling, pleading, and I can’t breathe and I know they’ll hear me and come walking and I don’t want to die alone. I just keep saying, Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, and my hands work without me realizing it and I have the Ziploc open and I’m crushing shards and snorting and I don’t know if I’m saying it anymore—please don’t leave me—or if it’s just a thought and then things are quieter, my mind loosens, methamphetamines fulfilling their promise, things okay then.

This book couldn’t have been done without my editor at Crown, Julian Pavia, whose edits, criticism, and advice were always spot-on. Nor would it have gotten off the ground without my agent, James McGuinnes, a skilled editor, advocate, and handler of my crazy. I’m grateful as hell to both of you. I’d like to thank my mentor, Steven Schwartz, for urging me to write about my obsessions. And thanks to the rest of the MFA faculty at Colorado State University, especially Leslee Becker, John Caldorazo, and Stephanie G’Schwind. Thank you Merrill Shane Jones for being psyched on everything to do with fiction. And Matthew Batt for buying me lunch and saying I owed it to myself to give writing a serious shot. And to my brother who was the sole reader of my horrific first stab at a novel. And my mother and father who’ve been nothing but love and support. And lastly to my wife—thank you, you’re fucking perfect, I love you.