Here There be Monsters by A. J. S. Mims
and I am on my knees, ice soaking through my jeans. I should be cold, in just jeans and his favorite Metallica shirt, but I feel numb. Besides, my insides are colder than the outside chill.
I’m not sure what I’m doing outside. I just knew I had to get out of the apartment where he died. Death stains things, and I was going to do my best to stay away from the taint. Hell, who am I kidding? At this point I may as well be dead.
I look back up at the sky, searching for the first star. If I can find the first star it will be a sign from him that this is nothing but a cosmic joke; he’ll wake me up tomorrow and hold my hair back while I puke. I don’t see anything, not even an airplane. I would have counted it.
Suddenly I am furious, burning with an anger only intensified by the alcohol in my blood. I smash the whiskey bottle, liking the sound, the burn of alcohol in new cuts, the ice turning red.
“Fuck you!” I scream at nothing, because he’s not there. He’s not here, he’s not there, he’s nowhere. “Do you think you’re strong, sitting somewhere, laughing at me? Huh? Is this funny to you? Well, you’re not, you’re nothing but a fucking pussy!” My voice breaks and I bow my head. “Where’d you go, baby? Where’d you go?”
User
I count out the pills, one by one,
Refusing to stop until I’m done.
I know using isn’t right.
I am too tired to fight.
I feel so empty without my drugs,
And so I take them, just because
I am afraid to find out who I am.
Sobriety seems far away.
The road is long, so they say.
Am I strong enough?
Right now I feel weak, not tough.
I want to close my eyes,
Lulled to sleep by all my lies.
You died – why can’t I?
I am afraid, but trying to be strong.
What if everyone is wrong
About me?
The Conqueror
She always chose weird lovers. Not that she called them that; “lovers” implied romance, and Leah wanted none of that. “Conquests” – that’s what she called them. Certainly not boyfriends. I was her only boyfriend. Not that she ever touched me. But she talked to me. And that was almost as good.
Most people thought I was gay. I’m not. And I wasn’t then. But Leah was my only friend, and I didn’t flirt with the girls or talk to the other guys. I was shy, painfully shy, and high school was hell. All I wanted to do was write or get stoned on the roof and listen to the Doors, or drop acid on the soccer field and talk about what we’d do when we ever got out of this fucking town.
Leah was shy, too, but people didn’t mess with her. She was pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way, but her eyes were snapping green. They were eyes that told people to stay away or they’d regret it. They were eyes that said leave her the hell alone.
I thought Leah was beautiful. She didn’t.
I think that’s why she went out with such strange guys. Long hair, short hair, nervous coke heads or strung out meth freaks, Leah didn’t care.
“Why are you going out with him?” I asked her one night as she got dressed up for a date with the president of the chess club. He was thin with a stutter and pale skin pitted with acne scars. He was nice, but not the kind girls usually paid attention to.
“Because,” she said as she ran her fingers through her choppy red hair, “everybody deserves a little affection.” She drew around her eyes with purple liner then turned around. “How do I look?”
My stomach did a little skip. How come people didn’t see how pretty she was, how smart she was, how funny she was? How come she didn’t see that? And how come she didn’t see the way I looked at her, the way I shook a little when she hugged me, the way I sometimes had to run to the bathroom when she’d walk around her room in just her underwear?
“You look hot,” I rasped, taking a pull on my cigarette.
“No, I don’t,” she laughed, a sad little ironic laugh. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Meet me on the school’s roof at twelve.” She hugged me and was gone.
I got there early and sat in the cool night air. I lit up a joint and stared at the stars. I usually came up here to write, but tonight all I could think about was Leah.
We’d known each other since the sixth grade when she’d moved to town. She said I was the only person in this hell-hole worth talking to. We’d stayed friends, best friends, and with one year of school to go were going to the same arts school in Russia. So long to all these sons of bitches. But to me she was more.
By the time I heard her climbing up the rickety metal ladder, I was stoned out of my mind. She flopped down beside me. She took a joint out of her purse and lit up, not saying anything. She was being quiet, even for her.
We sat in silence for a while, our shoulders touching, the pungent smoke rising from our joints.
“Are you okay?” I asked finally, just to break the silence. She took a deep breath.
“Do you really want to know why I go out with so many guys?” she asked. I nodded.
“’Cause I keep hoping I’ll find someone who doesn’t want to change me. My whole life, I’ve been wrong. It’s always ‘be more’, ‘be less’. No one will just let me be. And then we moved here and it just got worse and I’m ready to escape but I keep thinking that even in Russia it’ll be the same. I’m just not enough. I guess I just want to find someone who thinks I’m enough.
I gently grabbed her chin and turned her face so I could look into her eyes. “You’re enough, Leah. You don’t have to change.”
She smiled and leaned a little closer. Her eyes were soft and her breathing quick. She tentatively put her arms around me and kissed me. It was a chaste, close-lipped kiss, a virgin’s kiss. She pulled away.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispered, a laugh catching in her throat.
My hands went to either side of her face, big and ink-stained, and I kissed her back, tasting her lips, coaxing them apart.
She slid into my lap, so pale and thin, a sudden gust of wind sending her hair dancing around her head. I put my hands on her hips to steady her. Her hands slid up my tee-shirt and then it was gone. In one fluid movement she pulled her purple dress over her head and sacrificed it to the wind. My drugged mind was reeling, I was almost sure I was hallucinating. But her mouth was moist and real, her skin shivery beneath my fingertips…
I woke up as someone shook me, hard enough to make my head bounce off the brick wall. My throat felt dry, my skin was rubbed raw, and man, was I cold. I opened my eyes, vowing to never smoke that much pot again.
“Son, can you hear me? I need you to wake up now and tell me what happened.”
I opened my eyes. I was still on the roof. A cop was standing over me, blocking the sun. I shivered, and realized I was just wearing my jeans.
“What?” I mumbled, wrapping my arms around myself. I stood up, feeling shaky.
“I need you to tell me what happened last night.”
Last night? Leah. Me and Leah. Oh, God. “As far as I know, that wasn’t a crime,” I replied as I tried to find my shirt. All I saw was her purple dress. “We’re both eighteen.”
“Did she jump, or did you push her?”
“What?” I yelled, spinning around to face him. I ran over to the embankment, scanning the ground. There was an ambulance, a lone pale figure on a stretcher – wearing my shirt. Oh, God, oh, God…
“She broke her neck,” the cop said, standing right behind me. “It looks like she dove off.”
“So she…did she…,” I couldn’t bring myself to choke out the words. My face was burning, my jaw was clenched.
“You don’t really come back from a broken neck,” he answered.
I collapsed against the rough brick. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening, not after everything else.
I cried; I couldn’t help it. Screams were tearing from my throat now. I tried to muffle them against the brick
.
“I’m sorry about your girlfriend, son,” the cop said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“She wasn’t my girlfriend,” I cried, bruising my lips. “She wasn’t.”
I graduated later that year and went to Russia. It wasn’t the same without her. After a night of drunken partying, I scrawled, ‘Leah was here’ on the base of a statue. She would have liked that.
I didn’t go home until my senior year. I’d been avoiding it. But I was about to start my first real job as a writer for some trashy little tabloid, and it was long past time.
The first thing I did was climb the rickety ladder to the school roof, a joint behind my ear and a can of violet spray paint in my back pocket.
I sat there on the brick embankment and lit up the joint. I hadn’t been stoned since high school, but as my mind became fuzzy and soft, everything came rushing back. Her smile, her laugh, the way she talked.
I flicked the unfinished joint over the edge, watching as it disappeared into the dark. I stared at the brick wall. Four and half years later and it still looked the same. I pulled out the spray paint, and with bold, purposeful letters, wrote:
Leah was here
You and Me
Here we are again –
Another fight.
Another moment lost to anger.
You’ve had too much
To drink.
I’ve had too many
Pills.
Both screaming,
Both throwing our words
Like daggers.
Trying to be heard
But not even sure of what
We’re saying.
It’ll end just like the rest.
Someone gets tired and
Gives up.
No one will win
And we’ll go to bed, make
Promises with our bodies.
We swear we’re done.
No more losing our
Tempers.
But in a flash of
Boredom it starts,
And we tear each other
Apart.
Lost
Here I sit,
Lost
Between a sad
Song
And a sadder
Poem
And all I can
Do
Is think about our
End.
I miss you
And
I miss us
And
I miss who I
Was
But we can’t
Go back
And so I sit
And think.
Junkie Tales
Drugs are not bad. I should know; I’ve been an addict for years now. I know what you’re thinking – but that stupid drug dog told me to stay away from illegal substances. Well, guess what? The drug dog is just a god damn cop in a moth eaten suit.
Heroin is my savior. It’s the one thing that keeps me sane. I have my whole little ritual that I have to repeat over and over: tying the belt on my bicep, watching the little rivers of blue veins pop up. They’re getting harder and harder to find, though. The needle slips in and I push the syringe down. This part used to make me squeamish; it doesn’t anymore. The drug burns as it enters my bloodstream, but I’m used to that, too. Soon my eyelids are fluttering and my brain goes fuzzy. I let myself just drift into the nod, fading.
I know no one understands how I can do this to myself. I scare people; hell, sometimes I scare myself. My mom calls at least once a day, always for the same reason: “I just wanted to hear your voice.” It’s like she knows a time is coming when she won’t be able to. My brother gets angry sometimes. I know he’d like to beat the addiction out of me. His eyes glaze over and he clenches his jaw; his knuckles crack. He wants to help me, but knows he can’t. I guess that would piss me off, too.
My girlfriend’s the worst, though. I tell her I’m clean, that the rehab stuck this time. She doesn’t believe me, but she wants to so badly. Sometimes at night, when she thinks I’m sleeping, she watches me, propped up on one elbow, her hair falling in her face. She traces the veins on my arms, looking for tracks, then tells herself they’re just bruises. She stares at my sunken cheeks, wanting to believe that I’m just working too hard.
I try to reassure her. I wrap my arms around her to make her feel safe, but they feel hollow, even to me. I know when she hugs me and rests her face in the hollow of my neck, she’s trying to imagine life without me. That’s when I really feel like shit.
I love them all; my girlfriend, my mom, my brother. I want to care that I’m hurting all of them, but I’m just so tired. I can’t.
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I’m not supposed to outlive my kid brother. We’re supposed to get old and crotchety together, turn into those dirty old men, go fishing. Okay, maybe not fishing, but you know what I mean. I’m not supposed to watch him self destruct.
I just don’t get why he can’t stop. True, addiction’s hell, and no one knows that better than me. But if I can put down the bottle than he can put down the needle, right?
The lying is what really pisses me off. He tells us he’s clean, the rehab worked this time but we’re not fucking blind. I can see his ribs through his tee-shirts; he can’t keep his eyes open sometimes. And I know those are tracks on his arms. He should just say he’s using. I could respect him for asking for help. But the lies! Sometimes I just want to beat the shit out of him! I know that wouldn’t help, though. Might make me feel better.
I act angry when I’m around him but the truth is I’m scared. He’s killing himself slowly in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sometimes I just want to hug him, anchor him to me, tell him I love him.
But I don’t.
Not ever.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●I don’t sleep any more. I wait until he’s dozed off and then sneak out of bed. I grab the cigarettes from my purse and slip out onto the porch. With shaking fingers I light up, and think about how fucked up everything’s become. He’s using again. I can see that, even if he won’t tell me. He’s gaunt and pale, dark circles ring his eyes. Why won’t he just admit he’s screwed up and let me help him? Sometimes I sit on the porch all night, afraid to go back inside, afraid I’ll start crying and begging him to please, please stop before something bad happens. I watch the sun come up; bright pink against the pale blue backdrop. I wonder if today will be the day I fail him, it today will be the day he dies. I creep back into bed and wrap my arms around him. I don’t want to ever let go. “Please,” I whisper into his hair. “Please, let me be enough.”
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I punch his number into my phone. I don’t need to. He’s programmed as speed dial two. But I like to type the numbers in, stare at them, like rubbing a lucky rabbit’s foot, or praying to a god that doesn’t answer back. I need to talk to him.
I’m not the nagging type of mom. I was always the young one, who encouraged him to live a little. Try everything once, and if you like it, try it again.
My son is addicted to heroin.
It’s taken me years to admit that to myself. What parent wants to look at their child and see a decaying old man instead of a vibrant twenty one year old he’s supposed to be? It was easier to just pretend he was going through a phase. This couldn’t be happening to my son.
This is my fault. If I had actually been a mother to my boys instead of being a friend… But it’s too late now. I let him do whatever he wanted and there were never any consequences. There will be consequences for this, though
.
I don’t know how to tell him to get help. I don’t want to sound like the overbearing mother. But my heart aches when I realize there may be a time when he won’t be here.
I should shake him, wrap my arms around him, cry until he sees how sorry I am, how I would give anything to have my little boy back.
But instead all I do is punch his number into my phone, stare at it, words like bile sour in my stomach. And then hit cancel.
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This was not supposed happen. Not like this. Not ever.
It was one if those rare fall days where it was cool, only the slightest bit of breeze, a small reminder that winter was coming. A clean sky, no hint of clouds. Nothing foreshadowing my world was about to come crashing down.
I was sitting on the patio, reading The Sun Also Rises. Losing myself in Hemingway’s sparse prose, wanting to be Brett Ashley. He’d gone to visit his mom for the weekend. For the first time in months, I wasn’t worried. I guess I thought she could keep him safe.
I knew something was wrong, something was horrible wrong, when his brother walked up. I had never seen him look like that before, his face devoid of emotion. He leaned against the railing and took a deep breath, not looking me in the eye.
“He’s dead.”
All the air got stuck in my throat as I dropped my book. It flopped to the ground with a thud, and for a moment I thought it had fallen through me, because the only thing that had made me feel real was gone. Spent, lost forever.
“He O’D.” Even though I hadn’t asked, hadn’t need to because of course he’d overdosed, how else could he have died? I still can’t force words out, could barely breath.
“I can’t stay here,” he said, drawing shaking fingers through his hair, and I don’t want him to stay, suddenly realizing how much they look alike. Looked alike.
I watch him walk away, thinking for a moment that I fell asleep in the soft twilight. But my thudding heart tells me this is a nightmare that I will never awake from.
I lean down to pick up the book, my gut being torn out by his loss. I stare at the pages rustling in the wind, not really seeing them. Until it stops at a page from A Farewell to Arms: “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially,” And it’s too much. I lean over, pressing my hands to my mouth to keep from screaming.
He’s dead.
And I’m broken.
A Song of Sixes
It’s supposed to hurt,
She thinks, but will not cry.
Sit still, he says.
The first line brings pain,
But not as bad as she thinks.
It’s worth her first tattoo.
He had a tattoo
And a smile that could hurt,
Especially when he wanted her to cry.
I love you, he says.
Love shouldn’t come with pain
Or maybe it does, she thinks.
I love him, too, she thinks,
Even his tattoo.
But she wanted him to hurt,
Too, and to cry.
I hate you, he says.
Now she knows a different pain.
He wants to stop her pain.
At least that’s what he thinks.
His heart is a scar-tattoo,
A constant aching hurt.
He refuses to cry.
I hate you, she says.
I’ll never leave you, he says,
But I’m afraid of
I’m not sure what I’m doing outside. I just knew I had to get out of the apartment where he died. Death stains things, and I was going to do my best to stay away from the taint. Hell, who am I kidding? At this point I may as well be dead.
I look back up at the sky, searching for the first star. If I can find the first star it will be a sign from him that this is nothing but a cosmic joke; he’ll wake me up tomorrow and hold my hair back while I puke. I don’t see anything, not even an airplane. I would have counted it.
Suddenly I am furious, burning with an anger only intensified by the alcohol in my blood. I smash the whiskey bottle, liking the sound, the burn of alcohol in new cuts, the ice turning red.
“Fuck you!” I scream at nothing, because he’s not there. He’s not here, he’s not there, he’s nowhere. “Do you think you’re strong, sitting somewhere, laughing at me? Huh? Is this funny to you? Well, you’re not, you’re nothing but a fucking pussy!” My voice breaks and I bow my head. “Where’d you go, baby? Where’d you go?”
User
I count out the pills, one by one,
Refusing to stop until I’m done.
I know using isn’t right.
I am too tired to fight.
I feel so empty without my drugs,
And so I take them, just because
I am afraid to find out who I am.
Sobriety seems far away.
The road is long, so they say.
Am I strong enough?
Right now I feel weak, not tough.
I want to close my eyes,
Lulled to sleep by all my lies.
You died – why can’t I?
I am afraid, but trying to be strong.
What if everyone is wrong
About me?
The Conqueror
She always chose weird lovers. Not that she called them that; “lovers” implied romance, and Leah wanted none of that. “Conquests” – that’s what she called them. Certainly not boyfriends. I was her only boyfriend. Not that she ever touched me. But she talked to me. And that was almost as good.
Most people thought I was gay. I’m not. And I wasn’t then. But Leah was my only friend, and I didn’t flirt with the girls or talk to the other guys. I was shy, painfully shy, and high school was hell. All I wanted to do was write or get stoned on the roof and listen to the Doors, or drop acid on the soccer field and talk about what we’d do when we ever got out of this fucking town.
Leah was shy, too, but people didn’t mess with her. She was pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way, but her eyes were snapping green. They were eyes that told people to stay away or they’d regret it. They were eyes that said leave her the hell alone.
I thought Leah was beautiful. She didn’t.
I think that’s why she went out with such strange guys. Long hair, short hair, nervous coke heads or strung out meth freaks, Leah didn’t care.
“Why are you going out with him?” I asked her one night as she got dressed up for a date with the president of the chess club. He was thin with a stutter and pale skin pitted with acne scars. He was nice, but not the kind girls usually paid attention to.
“Because,” she said as she ran her fingers through her choppy red hair, “everybody deserves a little affection.” She drew around her eyes with purple liner then turned around. “How do I look?”
My stomach did a little skip. How come people didn’t see how pretty she was, how smart she was, how funny she was? How come she didn’t see that? And how come she didn’t see the way I looked at her, the way I shook a little when she hugged me, the way I sometimes had to run to the bathroom when she’d walk around her room in just her underwear?
“You look hot,” I rasped, taking a pull on my cigarette.
“No, I don’t,” she laughed, a sad little ironic laugh. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Meet me on the school’s roof at twelve.” She hugged me and was gone.
I got there early and sat in the cool night air. I lit up a joint and stared at the stars. I usually came up here to write, but tonight all I could think about was Leah.
We’d known each other since the sixth grade when she’d moved to town. She said I was the only person in this hell-hole worth talking to. We’d stayed friends, best friends, and with one year of school to go were going to the same arts school in Russia. So long to all these sons of bitches. But to me she was more.
By the time I heard her climbing up the rickety metal ladder, I was stoned out of my mind. She flopped down beside me. She took a joint out of her purse and lit up, not saying anything. She was being quiet, even for her.
We sat in silence for a while, our shoulders touching, the pungent smoke rising from our joints.
“Are you okay?” I asked finally, just to break the silence. She took a deep breath.
“Do you really want to know why I go out with so many guys?” she asked. I nodded.
“’Cause I keep hoping I’ll find someone who doesn’t want to change me. My whole life, I’ve been wrong. It’s always ‘be more’, ‘be less’. No one will just let me be. And then we moved here and it just got worse and I’m ready to escape but I keep thinking that even in Russia it’ll be the same. I’m just not enough. I guess I just want to find someone who thinks I’m enough.
I gently grabbed her chin and turned her face so I could look into her eyes. “You’re enough, Leah. You don’t have to change.”
She smiled and leaned a little closer. Her eyes were soft and her breathing quick. She tentatively put her arms around me and kissed me. It was a chaste, close-lipped kiss, a virgin’s kiss. She pulled away.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispered, a laugh catching in her throat.
My hands went to either side of her face, big and ink-stained, and I kissed her back, tasting her lips, coaxing them apart.
She slid into my lap, so pale and thin, a sudden gust of wind sending her hair dancing around her head. I put my hands on her hips to steady her. Her hands slid up my tee-shirt and then it was gone. In one fluid movement she pulled her purple dress over her head and sacrificed it to the wind. My drugged mind was reeling, I was almost sure I was hallucinating. But her mouth was moist and real, her skin shivery beneath my fingertips…
I woke up as someone shook me, hard enough to make my head bounce off the brick wall. My throat felt dry, my skin was rubbed raw, and man, was I cold. I opened my eyes, vowing to never smoke that much pot again.
“Son, can you hear me? I need you to wake up now and tell me what happened.”
I opened my eyes. I was still on the roof. A cop was standing over me, blocking the sun. I shivered, and realized I was just wearing my jeans.
“What?” I mumbled, wrapping my arms around myself. I stood up, feeling shaky.
“I need you to tell me what happened last night.”
Last night? Leah. Me and Leah. Oh, God. “As far as I know, that wasn’t a crime,” I replied as I tried to find my shirt. All I saw was her purple dress. “We’re both eighteen.”
“Did she jump, or did you push her?”
“What?” I yelled, spinning around to face him. I ran over to the embankment, scanning the ground. There was an ambulance, a lone pale figure on a stretcher – wearing my shirt. Oh, God, oh, God…
“She broke her neck,” the cop said, standing right behind me. “It looks like she dove off.”
“So she…did she…,” I couldn’t bring myself to choke out the words. My face was burning, my jaw was clenched.
“You don’t really come back from a broken neck,” he answered.
I collapsed against the rough brick. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening, not after everything else.
I cried; I couldn’t help it. Screams were tearing from my throat now. I tried to muffle them against the brick
“I’m sorry about your girlfriend, son,” the cop said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“She wasn’t my girlfriend,” I cried, bruising my lips. “She wasn’t.”
I graduated later that year and went to Russia. It wasn’t the same without her. After a night of drunken partying, I scrawled, ‘Leah was here’ on the base of a statue. She would have liked that.
I didn’t go home until my senior year. I’d been avoiding it. But I was about to start my first real job as a writer for some trashy little tabloid, and it was long past time.
The first thing I did was climb the rickety ladder to the school roof, a joint behind my ear and a can of violet spray paint in my back pocket.
I sat there on the brick embankment and lit up the joint. I hadn’t been stoned since high school, but as my mind became fuzzy and soft, everything came rushing back. Her smile, her laugh, the way she talked.
I flicked the unfinished joint over the edge, watching as it disappeared into the dark. I stared at the brick wall. Four and half years later and it still looked the same. I pulled out the spray paint, and with bold, purposeful letters, wrote:
Leah was here
You and Me
Here we are again –
Another fight.
Another moment lost to anger.
You’ve had too much
To drink.
I’ve had too many
Pills.
Both screaming,
Both throwing our words
Like daggers.
Trying to be heard
But not even sure of what
We’re saying.
It’ll end just like the rest.
Someone gets tired and
Gives up.
No one will win
And we’ll go to bed, make
Promises with our bodies.
We swear we’re done.
No more losing our
Tempers.
But in a flash of
Boredom it starts,
And we tear each other
Apart.
Lost
Here I sit,
Lost
Between a sad
Song
And a sadder
Poem
And all I can
Do
Is think about our
End.
I miss you
And
I miss us
And
I miss who I
Was
But we can’t
Go back
And so I sit
And think.
Junkie Tales
Drugs are not bad. I should know; I’ve been an addict for years now. I know what you’re thinking – but that stupid drug dog told me to stay away from illegal substances. Well, guess what? The drug dog is just a god damn cop in a moth eaten suit.
Heroin is my savior. It’s the one thing that keeps me sane. I have my whole little ritual that I have to repeat over and over: tying the belt on my bicep, watching the little rivers of blue veins pop up. They’re getting harder and harder to find, though. The needle slips in and I push the syringe down. This part used to make me squeamish; it doesn’t anymore. The drug burns as it enters my bloodstream, but I’m used to that, too. Soon my eyelids are fluttering and my brain goes fuzzy. I let myself just drift into the nod, fading.
I know no one understands how I can do this to myself. I scare people; hell, sometimes I scare myself. My mom calls at least once a day, always for the same reason: “I just wanted to hear your voice.” It’s like she knows a time is coming when she won’t be able to. My brother gets angry sometimes. I know he’d like to beat the addiction out of me. His eyes glaze over and he clenches his jaw; his knuckles crack. He wants to help me, but knows he can’t. I guess that would piss me off, too.
My girlfriend’s the worst, though. I tell her I’m clean, that the rehab stuck this time. She doesn’t believe me, but she wants to so badly. Sometimes at night, when she thinks I’m sleeping, she watches me, propped up on one elbow, her hair falling in her face. She traces the veins on my arms, looking for tracks, then tells herself they’re just bruises. She stares at my sunken cheeks, wanting to believe that I’m just working too hard.
I try to reassure her. I wrap my arms around her to make her feel safe, but they feel hollow, even to me. I know when she hugs me and rests her face in the hollow of my neck, she’s trying to imagine life without me. That’s when I really feel like shit.
I love them all; my girlfriend, my mom, my brother. I want to care that I’m hurting all of them, but I’m just so tired. I can’t.
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I’m not supposed to outlive my kid brother. We’re supposed to get old and crotchety together, turn into those dirty old men, go fishing. Okay, maybe not fishing, but you know what I mean. I’m not supposed to watch him self destruct.
I just don’t get why he can’t stop. True, addiction’s hell, and no one knows that better than me. But if I can put down the bottle than he can put down the needle, right?
The lying is what really pisses me off. He tells us he’s clean, the rehab worked this time but we’re not fucking blind. I can see his ribs through his tee-shirts; he can’t keep his eyes open sometimes. And I know those are tracks on his arms. He should just say he’s using. I could respect him for asking for help. But the lies! Sometimes I just want to beat the shit out of him! I know that wouldn’t help, though. Might make me feel better.
I act angry when I’m around him but the truth is I’m scared. He’s killing himself slowly in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sometimes I just want to hug him, anchor him to me, tell him I love him.
But I don’t.
Not ever.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●I don’t sleep any more. I wait until he’s dozed off and then sneak out of bed. I grab the cigarettes from my purse and slip out onto the porch. With shaking fingers I light up, and think about how fucked up everything’s become. He’s using again. I can see that, even if he won’t tell me. He’s gaunt and pale, dark circles ring his eyes. Why won’t he just admit he’s screwed up and let me help him? Sometimes I sit on the porch all night, afraid to go back inside, afraid I’ll start crying and begging him to please, please stop before something bad happens. I watch the sun come up; bright pink against the pale blue backdrop. I wonder if today will be the day I fail him, it today will be the day he dies. I creep back into bed and wrap my arms around him. I don’t want to ever let go. “Please,” I whisper into his hair. “Please, let me be enough.”
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I punch his number into my phone. I don’t need to. He’s programmed as speed dial two. But I like to type the numbers in, stare at them, like rubbing a lucky rabbit’s foot, or praying to a god that doesn’t answer back. I need to talk to him.
I’m not the nagging type of mom. I was always the young one, who encouraged him to live a little. Try everything once, and if you like it, try it again.
My son is addicted to heroin.
It’s taken me years to admit that to myself. What parent wants to look at their child and see a decaying old man instead of a vibrant twenty one year old he’s supposed to be? It was easier to just pretend he was going through a phase. This couldn’t be happening to my son.
This is my fault. If I had actually been a mother to my boys instead of being a friend… But it’s too late now. I let him do whatever he wanted and there were never any consequences. There will be consequences for this, though
I don’t know how to tell him to get help. I don’t want to sound like the overbearing mother. But my heart aches when I realize there may be a time when he won’t be here.
I should shake him, wrap my arms around him, cry until he sees how sorry I am, how I would give anything to have my little boy back.
But instead all I do is punch his number into my phone, stare at it, words like bile sour in my stomach. And then hit cancel.
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This was not supposed happen. Not like this. Not ever.
It was one if those rare fall days where it was cool, only the slightest bit of breeze, a small reminder that winter was coming. A clean sky, no hint of clouds. Nothing foreshadowing my world was about to come crashing down.
I was sitting on the patio, reading The Sun Also Rises. Losing myself in Hemingway’s sparse prose, wanting to be Brett Ashley. He’d gone to visit his mom for the weekend. For the first time in months, I wasn’t worried. I guess I thought she could keep him safe.
I knew something was wrong, something was horrible wrong, when his brother walked up. I had never seen him look like that before, his face devoid of emotion. He leaned against the railing and took a deep breath, not looking me in the eye.
“He’s dead.”
All the air got stuck in my throat as I dropped my book. It flopped to the ground with a thud, and for a moment I thought it had fallen through me, because the only thing that had made me feel real was gone. Spent, lost forever.
“He O’D.” Even though I hadn’t asked, hadn’t need to because of course he’d overdosed, how else could he have died? I still can’t force words out, could barely breath.
“I can’t stay here,” he said, drawing shaking fingers through his hair, and I don’t want him to stay, suddenly realizing how much they look alike. Looked alike.
I watch him walk away, thinking for a moment that I fell asleep in the soft twilight. But my thudding heart tells me this is a nightmare that I will never awake from.
I lean down to pick up the book, my gut being torn out by his loss. I stare at the pages rustling in the wind, not really seeing them. Until it stops at a page from A Farewell to Arms: “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially,” And it’s too much. I lean over, pressing my hands to my mouth to keep from screaming.
He’s dead.
And I’m broken.
A Song of Sixes
It’s supposed to hurt,
She thinks, but will not cry.
Sit still, he says.
The first line brings pain,
But not as bad as she thinks.
It’s worth her first tattoo.
He had a tattoo
And a smile that could hurt,
Especially when he wanted her to cry.
I love you, he says.
Love shouldn’t come with pain
Or maybe it does, she thinks.
I love him, too, she thinks,
Even his tattoo.
But she wanted him to hurt,
Too, and to cry.
I hate you, he says.
Now she knows a different pain.
He wants to stop her pain.
At least that’s what he thinks.
His heart is a scar-tattoo,
A constant aching hurt.
He refuses to cry.
I hate you, she says.
I’ll never leave you, he says,
But I’m afraid of