Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

May 2007

     “Well they’re not too deep, thankfully. I don’t even think you need stitches, honestly.”
     “Man, that’s what I kept tellin’ y’all over ‘n over again. It’s not bad at all.”
     Sitting on the cold, flat table-seat, I remember the aggravating ride to the hospital－yelling at the medics, telling them to stop and pull-over because I was fine. The cuts I made on my left wrist were merely scratches compared to other cuts I’ve had. 
     Like in summer camp, about 20 of us kids went out camping, when all of a sudden it had begun to rain. We all gathered our soaking sleeping bags and had sat in the bed of a pick-up, awaiting a ride back to our cabins. Then I realized I didn’t have my pillow, and so I leapt out of the truck and ran to the wooden platform we had been sleeping on－
     WHAM!
     I had hit something, which in turn, shot me back, as if I had run into a human brick that angrily pushed me a few feet back. .
     I had laid there on the wet grass and sticks when it occurred to me what had happened. I had forgotten about the barbed-wire fence that surrounded where we slept. Cuts riddled my arms like track marks, including a gnarly one in the middle of my chest. I still have the scars.
     At the hospital, “Not deep at all. Didn’t even need stitches,” I said quietly to myself.
     One of the nurses eventually leveled with me, stating if EMS is called, then they're obligated to bring someone in. I didn’t know if she was lying to me so I would shut up, or what, but it worked. That switched my anger over to someone else.
     That pale, drunk face.
     Eyes wide and confused like they couldn’t perceive what was happening.
     Oh, but they knew.
     This whole mess was her fault.
     Someone called saying I fucked them in a closet?
     Oh, and described my body?
     I couldn’t comprehend my own thoughts. They confused me every time they ran across my mind. 
    Did that actually happen? What the hell was wrong with her?
     I had dealt with drunk girlfriends before, but never anything like that. This one took the cake, for sure.
     I had been sitting there freezing my ass off for hours when a doctor came up to me, telling me I could leave, at long last. I needed a shot of dope before I went crazy and puked on everything. I had been looking around trying to spot a nurse’s medical station—where they had shots, medicines, etc.—but there almost invariably was a nurse around preventing me from doing what I needed to do. I figured they had known what was going on with me. My track marks and bruises from collapsed veins weren’t hard to overlook. But fortunately, it was time to go.
     Nobody was there waiting for me. I guess they were too drunk to drive, or didn't care. It would’ve been the least they could have done since this whole matter was her fault. I didn’t sleep with anyone. And I knew no one called her. I wanted to call her, but decided not to. I wanted to simply show up and surprise her.
     There was no Uber or Lyft back then, so I had to wait for the yellow taxi with an Indian driver to come pick me up. They had taken me all the way downtown, even though there was a hospital not two miles from our apartment. What the hell? So the cab ride came out to be some forty bucks. Forty bucks that could’ve gone to more dope.
     Fucking cabs.
     Fucking dope.
     Fucking life.
     I wanted to quit. It was time. I was done dealing with the endless fear of always being sick. Not to mention, my body couldn’t take it any longer. I was ghoulishly pale, skinny and you could tell there was something wrong with me simply from looking. Like a ghost or the undead. That’s what heroin makes you: A sick, ghastly fiend with one thing on his or her mind: To not be sick. Even though, I looked sick. The dope wasn't getting me high anymore. I would have to shoot up much more than what I was, to get high, but we just couldn’t afford that. We shot up just to feel normal. Just to exist. We couldn’t 'be' without it.
     I arrived back at the apartment at about six in the morning. What a shitty night. At least, I was home and it was all over with. I didn’t even want to talk to Scarlett, I just wanted to take a shot then go to sleep.
     I stuck my key into the lock and opened the door.
     At least she didn’t deadbolt it, this time.
     The living room was dark, but I could nevertheless make out the syringes littering the floor. It looked like someone had ransacked the place, but then I realized it was always like that. When you’re not high on dope, you start to see everything how it is, but when you’re high, everything is different, or you simply don’t care.
     Why do I live like this? Being sober, I couldn’t fathom how or why someone would want to live like this day after day. I needed dope inside me. Stat!
     I heard shuffling in the bedroom.
     “Oh, shit!" Someone said from another room. 
    The shuffling was more quick and frantic now as I walked closer and closer to the bedroom. I had already known what was going on. I could smell sex in the air. I popped my head into the dark bedroom. I saw Mike with a sheet covering him, scrambling, trying to put his clothes on. I was watching all this while Scarlett, shoving me and doing her best to keep me out of the room. I’ve felt my blood boil before, but nothing like this. My vision went blood-red.
     She backed me up past the bathroom, which was in-between the bedroom and the living room, to where I was right next to The clock. I saw it and threw a fierce right jab, smashing it to pieces. Enough to where the entire thing shattered, fell to the ground, and left my hand bleeding profusely.
     I then ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and went after Mike, who noticed the rage in my fierce, hateful eyes. Rather than continue to get dressed, he bolted out the door, clothes in hand. Smart kid. 
But I should've locked the door.
     While chasing Mike, I couldn't feel the slaps smacking my back. 
     I turned around and Scarlett kept at it, hitting my face, even. I didn't know what to do. I was beyond mad. I could sense blood being held up in my face, making it feverishly warm. My eyes were also on fire, wide like they were about to crawl out.
       "What are you doing?! Get off me!" I kept yelling, but she just wouldn’t listen to me. 
       It was much like playing a fighting video game with a girl. I couldn’t do anything to defend myself because all women do is punch random buttons, so you have to resort to the same thing and just hope for the best.      
        I kept telling myself not to hit her, I would never hit a woman, but the thought kept crossing my mind. I wasn't going to do it. But I had to get her off me somehow. 
    Her nails had begun to dig into my flesh. With that, and her hand slapping my face, blocking my vision, something had to be done, to get this crazy bitch off me. 
     I decided, that was it. No more. 
     I moved my arms trying to block her flailing claws, then gave her a good push. 
     I shoved her a few feet across the room. I thought it would be the least harmful thing I could have done. But I didn't think about the couch. 
     Her back slammed into the couch, flipping her over. After she fell over, I heard a sharp thump. I didn't see what had happened after she hit the couch. So, I walked over to her.
     Oh God, no.
     What did I do?!
     She was lying on the ground unconscious. Her poor head had slammed into the wooden coffee table. 
     I immediately dove to the ground, scooping her up into my arms. I held her head carefully and tried to wake her. 
     "Baby. Baby, wake up."
     I stroked her hair, gliding it behind her ears to see all of her face. 
     I closed my eyes as hard as I could, trying to cause them pain. I couldn't believe I had done what I had done. 
     I needed help. 
     Should I call 911? Probably.
     Just when I was about to get up to grab my phone,
                                    ...her eyes opened.