Memoirs Aren't Fairytales
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Authors: Marni Mann
| Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction |
| Mann, Marni |
| (2011) |
A dark tale of a young woman's descent into the hell of drug addiction."I could feel my chin falling towards my chest, my back hunching forward. My body was acting on its own, and my mind was empty, like all my memories had been erased. There was scenery behind my lids. Aqua colored water and powdery sand that extended for miles. I was never going back to coke. I wanted more heroin. And I wanted it now."Leaving behind a nightmarish college experience, nineteen-year-old Nicole and her best friend Eric escape their home of Bangor, Maine to start a newlife in Boston. Fragile and scared, Nicole desperately seeks a new beginning to help erase her past. But there is something besides freedom waiting for her in the shadows- a drug that will make every day a nightmare.Heroin.With one taste, the love that once fowed through Nicole's veins turns into cravings. Tracks mark the passing of time, and heroin's grip gets tighter. It holds her hand through deaths and prostitution, but her addiction keeps her in the darkness. When her family tries to strike a match to help light her way, Nicole must choose between a life she can hardly remember, or a love for heroin she'll never forget.
Copyright 2011 Marni Mann
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Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Rachel Brookhart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Print ISBN 978-1-935961-29-1
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-033-7
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961145
DEDICATION
To Susan, my light.
Contents
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the conception of my novel to its birth, you've stood by my side, Mom. Your endless support and advice gave this book the love it needed. When I had doubt, you never stopped believing. Dad, I never would have made it here if you hadn't listened to my rants. My P, Nicole Vander Clay, you caught me before I fell. Your words brought me to the place I needed to be. Nina Kesner, your excitement was and always will be a force that drives me to reach further. Jen Howard, I will never be able to thank you for everything you've done. Your guidance and wisdom made this novel shine. Jane Ryder, you always made me smile; your support will never be forgotten. Jody Ruth, my partner-in-crime, your voice kept me going when I thought I couldn't take another step. Melissa Roske, you pushed me to find the right words. Your feedback made them sparkle. Katy Truscott, Kathy Dieringer, Junying Kirk, and Pat Mann, I couldn't have done this without your love and support. To the crew, Erin Burke, Mike Lucido, Katie and Dan Kinnetz, thanks for the inspiration and amusement. Never say never, right? Rachel Brookhart, I appreciate all your hard work and commitment. Greg Simanson, thanks for bringing life to my novel. Krista Basham, thank you for being the best manager I could ever ask for. This journey wouldn't be the same without you, and I'm honored to have you along for the ride. Katherine Sears and Ken Shear, thank you for giving me a chance and for believing in me. Tess Hardwick, you made this all possible and I will be forever grateful. Big hugs, my friend. Codi and Bella, you have my heart. And Brian, my dreams are all possible because of you. Don't ever stop holding my hand. I love you.
The wall that I built
To bind myself in the dim
When the world outside
Pierced through my skin
And the steel breeze
Swept away my dreams
Another day forgotten
For I felt no pain
No noise
Or echoes
Because I was numb
Like a cold body
Frozen in a chained box
These dark walls
Lost dreams
Tainted frames
Were all that I owned
And the days and nights
Looked akin
So I conversed in the mirror
Where nobody could break in
Or soothe my fading soul
-N J
CHAPTER ONE
Eric sat behind the wheel of his beat-up '89 Toyota Corolla. His seat was so close to the steering wheel his knees hit the dashboard, and he couldn't see out the rearview mirror. He hadn't complained once about having no legroom or that his back was slumped forward because there was an enormous box of clothes behind his seat. His lips were stuck in a perma-grin, and his eyes were wide and glued to the taillights of the car ahead.
It had taken us almost six hours to reach the border between New Hampshire and Massachusetts when it should have taken less than four. Eric said the rabbit—what he had named his Corolla because the thing wouldn't die, like in those battery commercials— topped out at sixty. I didn't think all the extra weight was healthy for the rabbit either. I could hear the poor thing chugging.
Eric had emptied his entire bedroom and packed it all into the backseat and trunk. A lampshade teetering on top of a pile of clothes kept jabbing into my head, and the corner of his TV rubbed against my elbow. But I didn't complain either.
I hadn't put that much thought into packing. I grabbed some pants from my closet and some dirty shirts that were on my floor. I swiped a few toiletries from the bathroom and crammed it all into two backpacks. The ounce of weed I'd scored the night before went into my purse, and that's all I brought.
No one ever left Bangor; we called it The Hole. There was something about the place that sucked you in and kept you in shackles. If you went away for college, you never came back. If you stayed in-state like Eric and me, you were a Bangor lifer. No matter how much money you tried to save or plans you put together, you'd end up, years later, married to someone you met in high school, with kids, a Labrador, and a Cape Cod house. And then it was too late to leave. You had to escape as a teenager. It was the only way.
Two weeks earlier, Eric and I had been sitting in his car. It was late at night, and we were passing a bowl between us. He went on about his dead-end job at the auto repair shop, never having any money, and the nerve of his parents for charging him rent. My advice had always been the same: I told him to go back to college. He never should have dropped out in the first place. But that night, my advice was different. A month before, I'd dropped out of the University of Maine, halfway through the spring semester of my sophomore year. I'd quit my job at the campus coffee shop too. And since then, I hadn't done much besides sit on my parents’ couch and watch TV all day. I was ready for a change.
After the third bowl and a couple shots of some peppermint shit, I said, “If you hate it here so much, then move. I'll go with you.” He sat silent for a minute, then pulled out his wallet and slapped forty bucks on the armrest.
We were almost out of weed, and it was his turn to buy.
“Let's go,” he said.
He was the one driving, so I looked at him to start the car.
“I mean it, let's get the fuck out of here,” he said.
And then he started talking so fast it was like he was rapping along to the Jay-Z song on the radio. I couldn't even get a word in. He was going to pick a city along the east coast and find us a cheap apartment to rent. He would give notice at his job, save the next paycheck, and in two weeks we'd be out.
He showed up at my house the next morning with coffee and bagels, and we ate breakfast on my bed. He was quiet and ate his bagel really slow. I knew Eric too well. We'd been best friends since kindergarten and even dated for a week in the fourth grade. So when he started fumbling with my comforter and acting all antsy, I knew he was getting ready to tell me we couldn't leave until he saved more money.
I was dead wrong.
Under his jacket, he had hidden a bunch of papers. He'd stayed up all night researching different places to live and apartments to rent. He'd wanted to surprise me. And he did.
We were moving to Boston into a studio apartment in Chinatown, and all he needed from me was half the security deposit and a yes. I gave him both.
I didn't know what our apartment looked like. I'd never been to Chinatown before, and I didn't care. We were approaching the Tobin Bridge, and for the first time since I'd moved back in with my parents, I felt free.
At the start of the bridge, my hands grabbed the support bar on the door. Eric's hands were on ten and two, his knuckles white. It was like we were strapped in a cart, riding up to the peak of a rollercoaster. The skyline of Boston was in front of us, and somewhere in the middle of all those tall buildings was the place we were going to call home.
