Look After Me (7 page)
Two weeks.
Two weeks since my world tumbled down on top of me.
Two weeks since she broke my heart.
Two weeks . . .
Two weeks . . .
Two weeks . . .
How is it possible to go from having everything to having nothing within a matter of days? My life has undoubtedly hit rock bottom. I’m a shell of the man I used to be. They say old habits die hard. Whoever came up with that wisdom is a fucking genius because it only took one relapse, one moment of weakness before I was hooked once again.
Dropping a box on the floor of the new apartment I’ve rented, I realize that’s the last of them. Eight boxes in total. I almost laugh out loud at how pitiful it looks. I’m able to fit my life into eight boxes: no furniture, no television, and no bed. Clothes, Army memorabilia, photos and a few personal belongings are all I am left with after a four-year relationship. Pathetic doesn’t even come close to describing the man I have become. I’m no longer worthy of being loved.
Walking away from the boxes, I drop myself to the wooden floor in defeat and look around the empty space of the living room. The quiet is unnerving. It’s the first time in months that I’ve heard only silence. You’d think I’d welcome the peace and quiet after months of constant sounds of Afghanistan, but instead, I crave the twenty-four seven demands, the banter from fellow soldiers, the sounds of helicopters flying overhead, and the emergency sirens to alert me of a nearby danger. Even a gun going off would be a welcoming sound right now. I’d welcome any distraction that would deter the echoes of my mind and the ache in my heart.
As time slowly passes, the voices of betrayal and failure become louder until I’m screaming for them to stop. When that doesn’t work, I retrieve the one thing I know will ease my thoughts and stop the mayhem from ricocheting around my mind. It doesn’t take long for the drug to pump through my veins, helping me forget about everything around me, Ava included.
Lying on the wooden floor, the euphoria soothing me, laughter escapes my lips. Suddenly, the walls surrounding me begin to laugh as the hysterical laughter continues to barrel through me, making me feel on top of the world. I have no idea what we’re laughing at, but it sure feels fucking good.
“I’m gonna head on out to get some groceries. You need anything?”
My heartbeat almost flatlines as Grace pops her head around the bedroom door. Trying to compose myself, I smile, folding the t-shirt that I’m holding in my hands.
“No, I’m fine.”
She pauses at the doorway, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I don’t need anything. I’m good.”
Rolling her eyes, she opens the door and takes a few steps forward. “I wasn’t talking about the groceries. You looked distant just now. Everything all right?”
Not wanting her to worry, I plaster another smile on my face, holding up the folded t-shirt. “Your face would look like mine if you’d been doing something mundane like folding clothes for the past hour. I’m almost ready to pour bleach in my eyes.”
Grace gives out a hearty laugh. “Aw, is folding too domestic for you?”
“Hell yeah. Men weren’t made to be domestic. Let’s do a swap, you do the womanly thing and finish putting the clothes away and I’ll go to the grocery store instead?” I tease, trying to mask the desperation to my voice. I need to get some air; I need to clear my head of all things cocaine
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related. That recent memory is only the tip of the iceberg and that worries me because each memory only serves as a temptation. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to resist, especially with the intensity dial increasing each day.
Picking up a pair of socks that must have fallen onto the floor during my last hour of unpacking and putting away, she throws them at me. “What and have to touch your dirty skivvies! Dream on, bro.” And with that, she exits the room, her laughter following her. Then her words echo through my apartment, “And you’re such a sexist pig! Just for making that comment, I’m going to make you a salad for dinner instead of my signature steak! See how you like that!”
That actually brings a genuine smile to my lips as I go back to my folding. However, the smile quickly fades from my face the moment I hear the sound of the front door closing. Embracing the moment alone, I allow the darkness to override the constant need to please my sister with reassuring smiles and I fall back onto the bed in defeat. My sister thinks I’m improving each day, but that’s only an illusion. When she goes back to Charlotte, I want her to think I’m finally okay. She has her own life to live, and that doesn’t include mending her big brother’s heart back to health again. If she knew how I was internally struggling with my inner self, she would stay without a moment’s thought and I can’t do that to her. So for now, I’ll pretend everything is okay; that my heart is healing and that my cravings for an illegal substance aren’t an issue.
After a quick energy boost of push-ups on the bedroom floor—since exercise is the only thing I have full control over and the reason I’ve built up my muscles over the past few months—I put the rest of my bedroom items away. As I sift through my jackets and sweatshirts, I come across a jacket that is clearly four times too small for me, and obviously made for a woman. Assuming it’s Grace’s jacket, I throw it on the bed, only to have my heart slam to the very pit of my stomach when a small bag of white powder falls from the pocket. I stare at the spot where it landed, unable to pull my gaze away. My palms begin to sweat, my breathing accelerates and I become extremely twitchy within a millisecond, the impending withdrawal palpable through my racing heart. I stay unmoved, my entire body tense, unsure of what to do.
With my eyes trained on the bag of coke, it suddenly occurs to me that the jacket belongs to Lola. She must have left it at my old apartment and it got packed away with my things accidentally.
Lola was the chick I met at that bar months ago. After that one stupid moment, we soon developed a routine. She’d come around to my place, and we’d get royally fucked up then have mind blowing sex. The sex was probably the very opposite, but the high you get from taking the drugs makes you feel invincible. Like every addiction, the highs were quickly outnumbered by the lows, and it turned me into a person I barely recognized.
That was when my life turned dark.
I pick the bag up, feeling the plastic against my fingers, the cocaine a layer away as I try to find the strength to flush it down the toilet. But my resolve goes to shit when a sudden impulse to snort the cocaine runs through my entire nervous system, making it hard to focus on anything but what’s in my hand right now.
Taking an inhaling breath, I realize I need help before I find myself doing something stupid, something that I can’t take back. Keeping a tight grip on the bag, I take my cell from out of my pocket, and search for her name. When I finally find the number I need, I press call without a moment of hesitation.
She answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Um . . . is this Addison?” I ask, barely recognizing my own voice through the strained words.
“Yes, can I help you?”
Taking a deep breath, I tighten my hand around the bag of coke and close my eyes. “It’s Sebastian Gilbert . . . I’m—”
“Oh hi, Sebastian! How are you?”
“I need your help,” I croak. My heart slams against my chest, feeling nauseated as the cravings surge through my body, almost making my blood itch.
“Okay, what’s happened?”
“I’ve moved into a new apartment, and as I was unpacking my clothes I came across a jacket that I thought belonged to my sister. I tossed it on the bed and a bag of cocaine fell out of it. And now I’m freaking the fuck out because it’s taking everything in me not to open the bag and snort a line. I don’t know what to do,” I finish with a tremble to my voice.
“Okay, the first thing you need to do is take some deep breaths. Try and calm yourself down. Just take soothing breaths in . . . and out.”
I do as she says, and try to control my breathing with long calming breaths but it does the very opposite, making me feel as though I am hyperventilating.
“How are you feeling?” Addison asks after a few moments.
“Worse actually.”
“Just keep at it. Keep taking slow, deep breaths. Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth.” Her words continue, almost like a mantra and my grip on the bag of cocaine begins to loosen, but only slightly. It hasn’t done anything to appease the craving that is pulsating through my blood stream.
“Where’s the bag of cocaine right now?”
I unlock my fingers from its tight fist and open my hand. My eyes lock on the pure white cocaine. “It’s in my hand.”
“You’re doing really great so far, Sebastian. From past experience though, having the temptation under your nose makes the urge even greater. Out of sight, out of mind is actually a really great motto and that’s what you need to do. You need to dispose of it. I know that the task alone can feel impossible. What’s your address?”
“My address?”
“Yes, your address. Tell me and I’ll come to you.” I rhyme off my address, desperately needing her help. “I’ll be there soon.”
After her small pep talk, she ends the call. Without the tranquility of her words, my craving goes up a notch, and I suddenly find myself charging into the living room and heading straight to the kitchen. I internally scream at myself as I watch my trembling fingers open the plastic bag and sprinkle a line of cocaine against the kitchen counter. I feel like I’m having an outer body experience where my body is doing the complete opposite to what my brain is screaming it to do.
I take a twenty out from my wallet, rolling it up into a funnel. As my eyes trace the line of powder, I desperately urge the power from within my weak body to stop me from taking that rolled up twenty and ending my three months of abstinence in the blink of an eye. I slam my eyes shut, tears rolling down my cheeks. After a moment, I reopen my eyes, and my gaze falls on a framed photo of my daughter leaning against the wall on the floor, still waiting to be hung up. My heart slams violently into the pit of my gut at the image of my tiny Lily clutched against my chest when she was only two weeks old, a mere two pounds and six ounces.
What the hell am I doing?
Why the fuck am I tempted by this intoxicated shit when I have the most beautiful daughter? A girl who dotes on my every word. A girl whose smile lights up at the very sight of me, and a giggle that gives me the type of high a drug could never provide.
The urge I felt only seconds ago suddenly turns into anger. Furiously swiping at the line of coke, I pick the bag up with the remaining powder in and take long fluid strides towards the bathroom, desperately wanting this poison out of my reach for good. Opening the toilet seat, I toss the plastic bag and flush it away, watching as the contaminated evidence disappears. Slamming the lid shut, I spend several minutes scrubbing my hands clean, washing away any remainder of cocaine, and then another couple of minutes disinfecting the whole kitchen space, ensuring every inch is scrubbed. Through labored breaths, I remember the jacket on my bed, and grab a pair of scissors then head to my bedroom. Like a man possessed, I take the blades to the leather and cut it into smithereens, watching as the scattered pile falls into the trash can.
It’s only when the buzzer rings, alerting me to the arrival of Addison, that my heart begins to beat at its normal rate. I walk from the bedroom, down the hallway towards the intercom beside the front door. I buzz her in and after about a minute, I hear her gentle knock. I slowly open the door, feeling a little sheepish.
“Hi,” I say as I let her in.
“How are you feeling?” She turns, fully assessing me.
On a long inhale I say, “I’m okay. I had a weak moment but somehow I managed to find some strength because I flushed it away.”
Her eyes grow with surprise, then soften as she gives me a sweet smile. “That’s impressive, Sebastian. That takes a lot of courage. I’m really proud of you. If you don’t mind me asking, what changed? You were a mess on the phone.”
I point to the picture of my daughter, the one that gave me my focus back. “My daughter.”
Addison walks over to the picture and crouches down to get a better look at it. “Oh wow, she was tiny wasn’t she? It’s Lily isn’t it?”
I nod, smiling weakly. I’m a little touched that Addison remembers her name from our sessions. “Yeah, Lily-Mai.”
“She’s really beautiful,” Addison says with a smile.
I take my phone out of my pocket. “Here are the most recent pictures from her birthday a couple of weeks ago.”
Addison smiles fondly. “Aw, she’s absolutely adorable. You would never have guessed she was born weighing only two pounds.”
“I know. She’s my little miracle.” I shove my phone back in my front pocket. “I’m sorry that I’ve dragged you all the way here but it seems I’m fine now. It was just a weak moment.”
I know I’m not fine. I’m the very opposite of fine. And from the dubious look I can see on Addison’s face right now, she knows that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“You’re talking to an ex-drug addict here, Sebastian. I know you’re not fine.” She pauses for a split second before she says, “I’m here now if you want to talk.”
I suddenly remember why I felt more comfortable in her sessions than with any other counselor and it was because she never put any pressure on me to talk. And because of that, she was the only counselor I was really able to open up with. After these two weeks of torture, it would be nice to talk to someone without the façade that I usually find myself hiding behind.
“That would be great, actually. I’ve been dealing with a lot since I got out of rehab, so it would be nice to unload on somebody who understands. But do you mind if I take a shower first? After the whole cocaine incident I just feel . . .”
“As though you’re riddled with cocaine? And you won’t feel a hundred percent clean until you wash it away with the hottest shower bearable?”
Exactly. I thought it was a little neurotic to feel like this, but now that she said exactly what I’m thinking, I don’t feel as foolish. “Yes.”
