His shadow swayed in the glare of the television, casting inaudible screams on the yellowing floral print wallpaper. I couldn’t see the color, but I knew that when the drugs were gone, my lips dry, hips sore, lights on, and love turned to lust turned to apathy, the walls would be as yellow as the circles under my eyes. I felt the wallpaper, itching and burning, like it was my own skin that had aged and peeled.
I resigned myself to the thought, here I go again. My body slipped further away, barely awake, and I could hardly breath. As if I were a specter to someone else’s sorrow, I could see beneath my pale, white skin, hidden somewhere between my heart and ribcage, pushing aside whatever was left of my soul, was loss.
I look so peaceful. But I knew that underneath I could hear myself singing a song.
Is this what he sees? I wondered in disgust. There was always comfort when I never knew what was lost.
He impassively watched me slip away through glazed eyes. As he inhaled from the glass pipe, his emaciated chest expanded, and for a moment he almost looked healthy, which only emphasized how grotesquely thin he’d become. He used to look good in another age, another life. But he never treated me good. It was difficult to remember. It felt more like recollecting someone else’s past when all I could vividly recall was addiction: my addiction, his addiction…our addiction.
I watched as the first curl of smoke escaped his grinning mouth. It choked the life out of the air and seemed to make the already dark room darker. It coalesced into desire. I shut my eyes against that welcomed invader. But I felt death whispering in my ear. She sounded so familiar, as if she’d always been there, just out of sight, but always watching. Her voice was the loss I saw in myself. She said she didn’t want to take me yet. She said it could have been different. I didn’t have to recognize the sound of her song if I hadn’t started the record so early. It was such a sad song, sad story; the saddest I ever heard.
My eyes opened and he was atop me, thrusting his hips into my unresponsive womb. He grunted with the need for release. A single bead of sweat formed on his brow and worked down his temple, slid across the stubble on his cheek, and dangled painfully from his jaw. I would have given anything, first born child, remains of my rotted soul, addiction, for that sweat not to touch my skin. But like liquid fire it fell between my breasts, and with it all hope washed away. I closed my eyes and embraced our addiction as the saddest song settled on me for the last time.
Continuation of “Delusional Junkie”