Tragic Love (18 page)

Drake pulls back and holds my face in his hands. “Ninety days, in patient then they will set you up with an outpatient program here.”

“That’s so long. I don’t think I can be away from you that long.” I’m scared. I know how hard it will be just to kick my heroin habit then to add all the other shit on top of it.

“It will go faster than you think. Presley, you just have to try, okay?” Drake’s eyes are boring holes into my soul, pleading with my demons to leave so he can have the old me back.

“Okay,” I whisper. Feeling completely exhausted, defeated, and for the first time in a long time, loved.

“Now, we just need to make it through the next twenty-four hours.” The cold hard truth comes slamming down on me when the knowledge that the all too familiar sickness of withdraw will follow soon. I have not gone through a single day in the last month without multiple doses of heroin in my system. The minute I’ve felt the fever kick on, I ran down to Carter’s apartment for my medicine. Once Carter sticks me with the needle, he takes all the withdrawal and pain away.

I let out a sigh and feel the bile rise up my throat. This time I can’t choke it down. Breaking the embrace, I sprint toward the bathroom and heave in the sink, purging myself of the last bit of poison in my body. This is going to be a long fucking twenty-four hours.

***

I am officially dying. Throw me into a pit of rabid hyenas, slice my arm off and dunk the nub in a bucket of salt or cut my eyeballs from their sockets. All of those would feel like a treat compared to the razor blades slicing up my stomach. The last four hours are agony as the pain intensifies in my stomach and the trembling in my body increases. My skin is soaked from sweat and I feel like my bones are going to combust with every move I make. The feeling only gets worse as time ticks by. I’ve managed to puke four times in the bucket Delilah is holding under my head. However the worst part of this entire mess is the craving to use again. My body is begging me to stick the needle in my vein until euphoria takes over. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life.

After seven more hours have passed, the only thing I can think about is using. The sun is tucked away for the night and the blackness in the house mirrors the blackness of the deep desire I have to shoot up. Rain pounding against the windows as well as the roaring of the wind whistling through my bedroom window stirs me from sleep. The craving is intense and my limbs are shaking. I need it. I want it and I want it now.

I peel my eyes open to see Delilah lying on the bed next to me. She must have fallen asleep, too, while reading me sex scenes from her favorite smut books. It was her attempt to keep my mind distracted from the evil coursing through my bones. Listening to her southern drawl read very explicit scenes would have normally had me in stitches with the hilarity of the situation, yet right now, I could give two shits what the hard-working stable boy wants to do with his hoe.

I slowly roll to my side and sit on the edge of the bed. My long brown hair is sweaty and the stickiness of my skin makes me feel disgusting. The room is quiet. All I can hear is the drenching rain and wind blowing outside. As quietly as possible, I creep out of bed and down the hall. My apartment is vacant. Drake and Darcie are nowhere to be found and Mia is sleeping in her bed.

I’m feeling slightly guilty about telling Drake to get the hell out of my life right before I fell asleep. Is that where he went? Panic begins to rise, thinking that is exactly what he did, left me to do this on my own. Would he give up on me? If he did, I couldn’t blame him. I’ve given up on me long before tonight.

Suppressing the tears, I shrug back down the hall and make my way toward the bathroom. Maybe if I shower, I will feel better. I close the door as quietly as possible and lock it. Studying my appearance in the mirror,I suddenly realize what I’ve become—a disgusting waste of a person, a junkie that fits right in with the Sulfur Heights Southside residences. I pull my shirt and cami over my head, standing in my bra and shorts.

My eyes immediately snap to my arms. They are sore, bruised and on the verge of getting infected. Small holes trail up my arm like ants marching to a piece of food at a picnic. My skin once olive colored and flushed has slowly been sucked of its life, looking gaunt, and my ribs are almost protruding from my skin. Even when I was at my worst with anorexia, I don’t think I ever remember looking this disgusting. Now all I see is a strung out junkie. I wonder if I will ever see anything positive about myself.

Breaking my trance in the mirror, I lean over, turning the shower on, making sure the water is as hot as it can get. Unfastening the button of my shorts, I move to pull them off when I feel something crumpled inside my pocket.

There it is, the demon I’ve been fighting for the last eleven hours in a small baggie, daring me to take it. My hands start to tremble harder as I stare at my salvation. Accompanying the baggie is a small piece of folded paper, bundled in a tight wad. I unfold the paper with my shaky fingers and see a man’s handwriting scrolled across the paper in small, cursive letters.

Something to take the edge off. - Carter

I toss it onto the counter like it’s on fire. The white powder is staring at me, daring me to cook it. I can feel the coil cinch tight in my gut and the all too familiar need for euphoria floods my brain. This is it. I will be going to rehab and this won’t be my outlet from all my depression anymore. I promised Drake I would stop this and get myself back to what I once was. I will never use heroin to ease my pain after today. Tomorrow everything changes. Yet tomorrow’s tomorrow and today’s today. I want to ease everything I’m feeling right now; the anger, sickness, guilt and helplessness. I want it all gone, out of my system, just one last time before I have to face it again because tomorrow it all changes.

I open the cabinet under the sink and find my reserve supplies hidden in the depths inside a tampon box. It was the perfect place to hide my kit. Drake is like any other man when it comes to tampons; he won’t even touch them. As quietly as possible, I pull the tin from the box and pop off the lid. Staring back at me is a junkie’s heaven; metal spoon, needle and lighter. Everything I need to make this feeling leave.

I sit down on the floor and lay all the supplies on the bathmat. The air is steamy from the shower, making the possibility to breathe even more difficult than it already is. I pull the belt from my loops and yank it as tight as possible. The tension on my arm is painful and burns slightly as I cinch it harder. I’ve watched Carter do this on me many times; I know exactly what to do.

The metal spoon is cool in my fingers as I sweep it in the baggie, collecting the white powder on it. I’m not sure how much to take. It doesn’t look like there is a lot left in the bag. I scrape as much powder as I can onto the spoon then light the fire and watch the powder liquefy into the numbing serum I so desperately need as I fill the syringe.

I turn the CD player on and Billie Holiday’s haunting voice fills the room. I can’t help thinking today is Sunday, and after the events of the morning, it’s rather gloomy. I like how she’s singing for someone she’s lost and can’t help thinking about Drake. He would be her right now if I were to die; sad, helpless and utterly devastated. I put the song on repeat and let it take me away.

The thought of my mortality strikes me. Do I want to live? If you were to ask me that question two weeks ago—shit,even two days ago—I would have said no, but now,after realizing what I have to live for—Drake, Delilah and littleMia—my answer today is, yes. I do want to live, if not for me, then for them. They are here, loving me and fighting for me. The least I can do is fight for me, too. This will be the last time I put this poison in me. Come tomorrow, I work on building the bridges I nearly destroyed.

My breath hitches as I yank the belt even tighter, my lonesome vein surfaces, light blue and barely there. Expelling a deep breath, I insert the sharp tip of the needle into my sore flesh and feel it all leave. Every thought, every feeling, every twinge of pain fades and I’m finally at peace. I’m gone.

Drake ~Five Minutes Later

I shove my phone in my back pocket and run out of the bar without bothering to tell anyone where I am going. The door slams against the wall, causing the glass to splinter from the pure force I used to open it. When I make my way outside, the cold rain crashes onto my body and the downpour drenches my shirt and jeans while I make a dead sprint across the parking lot, jagged gravel crunching underneath my boots the entire way.

A brisk wind collides with the bare skin of my arms and face, but I don’t feel the chill. In fact, I feel the opposite; my body is hot and full of panic.

Only moments ago I received a frantic phone call from Delilah saying Presley is in the bathroom and she’s not answering. Delilah called an ambulance, but in Sulfur Heights, urgency is lackadaisical on their part because nothing on the Southside is an emergency. Sometimes, I think they would rather let the white trash rot before they decide to do anything proactive to help.

Regret instantly takes over because I left her. I should have never left Presley while she was sick. Darcie needed to return to the bar and Delilah insisted she would be fine without me, but I shouldn’t have listened. I will never forgive myself if something were to happen. Hopefully, Delilah is over-reacting, however the pain in my gut is telling me something’s not right.

Not knowing what happened and the paramedic’s incompetence, I propel my feet to move faster, pushing my legs even harder. The fierce thudding in my chest drowns out any surrounding noise while the adrenaline in my veins rages out of control. Finally, I reach my Chevelle, throwing myself into the seat and firing the engine to life. Gravel spits from underneath my tires when I tear across the parking lot and onto the wet pavement, fishtailing from the accelerated force of my car.

A million scenarios are playing in my mind and I start to speculate what happened in my apartment. Did Carter come back? Did she use? Or worse, did she try to hurt herself? It’s very possible Presley tried to kill herself with all the deep-seeded depression she’s been harboring.

Since she’s going through withdrawal, her emotions have been getting darker than I’ve ever seen before. She was saying hateful things to all of us. I don’t see her trying to kill herself. Then again, I never thought she would be a drug addict, either.

Darcie, Delilah and myself searched every inch of the apartment looking for a stash and came up empty. She was so angry we were going through her stuff it made it that much harder to get through the agonizing day. Tension has been living between the two of us for the last month, but I have to believe she wants to get better and I need to keep reminding myself this isn’t the Presley I fell in love with.

Dread and devastation start to reside in my gut and it’s becoming impossible to ignore the uneasy feeling. It’s an alarm telling me that whatever I encounter at home is going to be horrifying. I slam on the gas, pushing my car to drive even faster. Thank God the bar is only a few minutes away from our apartment.

The rain is hindering my line of sight through the windshield as I turn the wipers on and the streetlights send a glare onto the wet pavement, making my route that much harder to see. My iPod is blasting “Wicked Games” by Stone Sour; a song that always makes me think of my Presley.

From the moment I locked eyes with hers, we’ve had this undeniable connection that was and will always be wicked; a love that would literally kill me if it didn’t survive, though lately, could kill me if it did.

For the last three years this girl has been my world. We’ve gone through so much happiness and pain in the short time we’ve been together.

I rip around the corner and slam the car into park. In the glove box, I pull out my nine millimeter berretta and tuck it into the back of my pants. After my encounter with Carter yesterday, I’m on full alert, expecting anything, and I don’t know what’s going to happen when I open the door.

Running quickly, I take the steps two at a time to get down the hall faster. The hair on my neck is standing on end and I could puke at any moment from the fear growing in my stomach. I have no idea what I will find on the other side of the door. If my gut is telling me anything, what I will find won’t be good. I put the key to the lock and twist the deadbolt open. The sound of Mia’s cries is the only thing I hear as I push the door ajar. Delilah comes running from the back and then drags me down the hall.

“Drake! She’s in the bathroom. I can’t get the door open and she’s not answering me.” Delilah is frantic. Her nails are digging into my skin from her grasp clutching me so tight.

We make our way deeper into the apartment and I point Delilah toward Mia’s room. She swiftly walks into her room and lifts my crying baby into her arms, instantly comforting her. It’s then that I hear the faint music coming from behind the closed bathroom door.

“Gloomy Sunday” is on a continuous loop and my fear matches the dark lyrics to the song that’s known around the world as the suicide song. Billie Holiday’s voice cuts to the deepest part of my heart. Fuck! Please don’t let it be that.

I turn the cool knob, trying it even though I know it’s locked. I beat my fist against the hollow door and shout, “Presley!”

She says nothing. The only thing I can hear is the ghostly sounds of that song and it’s ripping my sanity to shreds. Holding the knob with one hand, I start to slam my shoulder into the door, rearing back further and thrusting faster with each thud. I shout her name between each hit on the door. Nothing. The wood begins to crack, but it’s refusing to break away. I take a step back and kick the middle of the door with every bit of strength I posses. After three hard kicks the door frame finally splinters enough for me to give it one final blow with my foot. The door flies open and I quickly stop it from closing again.

Everything around me begins to spin out of control as I see Presley lifeless on the floor. I fall to my knees and cradle her head in my lap. Her body is limp and frail.