Tragic Love (15 page)

Thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump.

No! I won’t give up on her, I can’t. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she needs me, and God knows how badly I need her. I keep plowing my bare fists into the bag. The skin on my hands is red and angry from each punch, but I keep on. I need to feel the burn. I need to feel something other than weak and helpless from my situation.

When I make my way back into the house, I can hear Darcie and Delilah having a heated conversation with each other. Not wanting to get in the middle of another chick fight, I try to get a drink as quietly as I can, so I can get the hell out of there. I turn on the tap and fill a glass with cold water. My breathing is rapid and the sweat is still present on my skin.

“Drake!” Darcie yells from the living room.

Expelling a deep sigh, I walk into the living room and quickly take notice that the girls are still in a heated discussion, but it’s not toward each other. Their conversation is heated only because they’ve come together, plotting and planning something the way chicks do.

“What’s up?” I say, looking around for my little girl. “Where’s Mia?”

“She’s napping in my room,” Delilah says with sadness in her voice. The second I walked into the room her face dropped and instantly was in pain, this can’t be good. She’s never been able to hide her emotions and I get the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Just tell him. He deserves to know,” Darcie encourages as she walks to my side, trying to be comforting.

I look between the two of them, trying to decipher what the hell they are trying to tell me. It’s making me feel anxious and pissed off all at the same time. “I’m guessing this has to do with Presley, so just tell me.”

“Delilah thinks she may know what’s going on with Presley. Apparently, she’s had problems with it in the past,” Darcie informs in quiet tone. “Go on. Tell him.” Her eyes meet Delilah’s and they instantly gloss over.

“Before Presley moved here, she was institutionalized.”
What the hell?
“Her parents recognized she had a major problem and immediately took action to get her help.” Delilah is staring at the floor while twisting the end of her shirt into a tight knot. “She’s struggled with depression for a long time and right before her parents died, she was doing so well. But then she moved here. And I can tell she is rapidly slipping back into her old ways. We have to get her help before she dies.”

“Institutionalized?” The word barely leaves my mouth with a sound. “For what?” I ask.

“Depression and anorexia. She has always been a sad person, which led to Presley getting teased constantly when she was younger, which only advanced her deep depression and it led her to starve herself. I think she stopped eating because she was trying to give up on herself, but we wouldn’t let her give up. Her parents put her in a rehab facility where she learned how to cope with her depression. God, she was just so sad and skinny. But over the few months of therapy while she was there, Presley started to pull herself back up.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I am livid. I could have done something sooner to help her. I can’t believe Delilah right now. Why would you keep a secret if you know revealing that secret will save someone’s life? “Do you realize all of this shit could have been avoided if you would’ve enlightened me, Delilah?”

“I’m sorry, Drake. Presley made me promise never to tell anyone. She was so embarrassed and didn’t want to be judged by her past. It just wasn’t my secret to share and I really wasn’t sure she was doing this until I saw her this morning.” Delilah’s eyes are pleading with me while mine ignite.

“Just like it wasn’t your secret to share when Presley went to the abortion clinic!” Her shoulders slump from my low blow. I’ve never resented Delilah for not telling me Presley was pregnant; I commend her for being a good friend. Besides, in the end, she saved her from a horrible decision. She saved my baby. Currently, that doesn’t matter because I am on fire, pissed.

My legs move and start pacing the length of the living room. I want to hit something and I want to hit so hard my fist explodes from the force of the punch. Why is she keeping important shit like this from me?

“Drake, I think it’s only fair we tell Delilah what happened to Presley while she’s been here,” Darcie says while grabbing my arm, trying to get my attention enough to calm down.

Defeated, I flop onto the couch and surrender. We need to talk because we have to save Presley’s life. I nod to Darcie and she begins to recap the horrific events of Presley’s life since living in Sulfur Heights. She starts at the beginning with her story and how she was abused for years by the hand of her deranged stepfather. She moves into the freak coincidence of Robert being Presley’s uncle and eventually speaks of the events that led Presley to being held captive in that house.

As she’s telling Presley’s nightmare, all the old feelings surface to my eyes. I was sixteen-years-old when all that shit happened to her. I have never been so scared in my entire life. The first glimpse I got of her after her captivity was horrifying and has been forever burned into my memory. She was covered in blood from the cuts to her body, purple from bruises and her hair was gone. She could barely stand. It was gut-wrenching.

While everyone else left to rescue Darcie, I carried Presley into my room and held her so tightly. The blood she was covered in saturated my clothes, but I didn’t care, it just made me hold her tighter. That was the last time I cried until the day I felt my daughter growing in Presley’s belly and until now.

I put my head in my hands and sob. All of the stress, aggravation and worry over Presley have finally broken me. I can’t keep the pain inside anymore. I let it all flow out while my body racks from the sobs. Comforting hands start running up and down my back as a quiet sob comes from Delilah’s throat. She knows. She knows how much I love this woman and how much it wounds me to see her wasting away because she loves her, too, just as much as I do. We all love Presley and now it’s time to save her. She has so much to live for and the most important reason is now snuggled into Darcie’s arms, refreshed from her nap.

I stand to my feet, wiping the wandering tears off my face and latch on to my daughter. Mia’s cheeks are pink and her honey-brown eyes are sparkling back at me. I kiss her on the cheek and hold her tightly to my chest, then whisper, “I promise, sweet girl, I will save your mommy. I
will
save your mommy.”

Chapter 10

Presley

My body is shaking all over as the familiar feeling of withdrawal is crashing into it. My stomach wants to wretch the contents, which nowadays isn’t much more than liquid. My new friend wraps his belt around my bicep and yanks it tight. The feeling in my arm starts to numb when one of the last working veins under my skin slightly elevates for me to damage it. The powder is liquefied and the syringe filled. He slides the cool, metal tip of the needle into my tender vein. The prick of pain is only momentary as I watch him push down on the plunger.

Instantly, my body relaxes and I finally feel euphoric again. I’m riding a wave of pleasure as all the pain escapes from my body, the guilt over abandoning my daughter and the guilt for lying to Drake while my addiction to heroin spirals out of control.

It’s been a month since the first time Carter stuck me with that needle and I can honestly say I’ve never felt so much weight leave my body in a matter of moments. Now, all I do is chase that high. There is nothing else in this world that can ease the fear, depression and hate living in my body. Not Drake, not Delilah, nor even my daughter; only heroin.

Ever since I was ten-years-old, I’ve struggled with happiness and once I lost my parents and then survived the terror of Robert Stein, helplessness and fear live permanently inside of me. Where Drake once took that feeling away, heroin has replaced it. I’ve always hated taking medication and Lord knows I didn’t plan on relying on drugs to keep me from feeling the horror in my mind.

I briefly think about getting a therapist again, but how am I supposed to admit to them the horrible thoughts I have of abandoning my daughter at a gas station. Or tell them exactly what happened to me in that house. How I was held against my will, almost killed by a lunatic. How am I supposed to say how I escaped? I’m lucid enough knowing those feelings and events aren’t right, aren’t supposed to be discussed. Little did I know, drugs are the only way I can erase the guilt for letting everyone I love down. The guilt for not loving the baby I created with the love of my life. I’m a horrible mother. I don’t deserve any of them.

Now that I’ve succeeded at alienating my family and friends, I spend most of my free time getting high with my new best friend, Carter—the mysterious man in black who I met at the park—or sleeping off my withdraw. Most days I don’t realize when Drake has come home with Mia because I am completely out of it. He barely speaks to me as it is and has been sleeping on the couch for the last month. I don’t pretend to care because that would mean I would have to admit how royally fucked up I truly am.

I snap my eyes open and look around my apartment. The last thing I remember is arguing with Delilah before I fell asleep. My head is dizzy and the room is spinning as I sit up then attempt to get off the couch. Fuck! The withdrawal floods into me. Sweaty and shaky I have to move. I have to see Carter.

I quickly walk back to my bedroom, bumping into walls along the way, and pull the tin from underneath the bed. I contemplate my decision to get high. I always debate whether I should or should not get high, however my addiction always wins because my mind knows peace will soon follow the moment the needle pricks my skin. I haven’t been brave enough to shoot myself up and I’m completely dependent on Carter to do it. I pull the cell phone off the dresser and dial his number. Fortunately for me, he lives downstairs on the first floor, so I have a private place to get high and live in peace.

I slide my fingers across the screen and listen for him to answer. “Hello?” His voice is deep, smooth and sounds like heaven.

“Hey…can I come down?” I ask while putting on a fresh pair of underwear and shorts.

“Door’s open. I got some really good stuff in yesterday. Do you have any money?” he asks and I cringe immediately. I only have enough left to shoot up one time and lately I shoot up more times than I like to count as I’m always chasing that perfect sensation.

“Uh…yeah,” I whisper, knowing I don’t have any more money.

“See you soon.” He hangs up the phone and I finish getting dressed. It feels like an impossible task just trying to put clothes on my body. The shaking is too intense and the vomit is burning the back of my throat. With every movement, I fight down the nausea, knowing it will all go away soon.

I plod down the steps and make my way across the pool area, walking up to his front door. I lightly tap on the outside and slowly push open the door. Carter is sitting at the table, counting twenty dollar bills, stacking them in piles, securing the pile with a rubber band and then adding their sum on his calculator. It’s more money than I’ve seen in one sitting and the sight makes my eyes go big.

“Lock the door,” he says as he pushes away from his table and greets me with a big open-arm hug. I like how comforting Carter has become for me. He understands I have a need to feel better and doesn’t judge me, he simply supports me. I latch my arms around his waist and feel his pistol tucked in the back of his pants. I’ve never known him to not have a gun or his backpack close by.

Carter hasn’t changed since the day I met him. He is tall, though not as tall as Drake, and thin, yet muscular and handsome. His eyes are bright surrounded by mile long lashes and his smile is welcoming. From the moment we met in the park, I’ve been drawn to him and I think he feels the same for me. We confide in one another and get high together. It’s the perfect relationship.

Where my drug of choice requires a needle, Carter prefers to smoke a joint, and on rare occasions, he will snort cocaine, but I’ve only seen him do that twice. Mostly it’s just weed.

Still in his arms, he asks, “Having another bad day?” He squeezes his arms tighter around me, keeping me secure in his arms.

“Yeah. I’m not feeling so hot.”

Carter takes me by the hand and leads me over to his couch. His apartment is exactly like mine except the layout is opposite. I flop onto the couch and pull my shirt over my head, sitting in a cami and shorts.

Carter opens my tin and pulls the metal spoon from the container. He sets it on the coffee table along with the syringe and the minimal powder left in the baggie. Next, Carter yanks the belt from his shorts and studies my arms, deciding which one will surface a vein. Once satisfied, he securely wraps the belt around my brown and purple arm. “We may need to move to your leg soon. I think your arms need some time to heal. It’s getting hard to find a vein.”

I shrug then tremble with anticipation of my pain-suppressing drug. Carter lights a joint then puts the lighter under the spoon liquefying the powder while a cloud of smoke surrounds him. Moments later, the needle is filled and he’s drumming light taps on my arms to raise my vein. Yanking the belt tighter, I feel the burn from the leather, but it soon leaves my body as Carter glides the needle into my vein and sends me into a tailspin of euphoric bliss. Riding a wave of pleasure and relief, I close my eyes and fall back into Carter’s arms. Finally, comfortably numb.

***

I’m assuming hours have passed by, considering the low light in his apartment. I don’t know how long I’ve been passed out. I still feel slightly high, but nowhere near as high as before. I look up and see my head is lying on Carter’s lap while he reads a book and looks deep in thought as I stir my limbs awake.

“Hey, I was wondering when you were going to wake up. Feeling better, sweetheart?” Carter grabs my hand and kisses me on the inside of my wrist, something he’s done from the first time he helped me get high. A kiss I’ve grown to love.