Page 62 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

It’s just mechanics, you know?

It’s…fine.

I pull up my dealers in the area because I had to have them back when I’d visited Phoenix. Firing off a few texts to the more promising people, I open the tab to the closest hotel and book a room. My phone dies not thirty seconds after. I walk the two miles to the hotel and check-in. An hour later, battery charging, I get a text.

It’s all so familiar.

The exchange of cash, shoving the baggie in my pocket, hustling back to the room, and locking the door.

Scoop some powder with my nail, line it up, and snort.

And then I’m on my back, naked, eyes wide.

I feel…nothing. I am nothing.

Tracy: Cops found a lighter. They’re checking it for prints.

This is what she chooses to send me on Christmas? Well, Merry fucking Christmas to you too, bitch.

I toss my phone on the queen-sized bed and rake a hand through my hair as my stomach knots painfully. Shuffling over to the table in the corner of the room, I snort a line of…fuck, I don’t even know what. I can’t worry about what she says. I wore gloves. She can’t pinshiton me.

So why am I freaking out?

I snort another line. It tastes like cocaine, but my memory is shot to hell. I’ve been numb fordays.

Wandering into the bathroom, I wince at the harsh light, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My beard is growing, deep purple circles cling under my eyes like leeches, and my hair has been in a knot since yesterday. I stink. And there’s a massive pimple on my cheek that I keep digging at.

Junkie. Addict. Loser. Pathetic faggot.

I shudder, my aunt’s words slamming into me.

Grabbing the razor blade from the sink, I slide down to the floor and drag it across my thigh. As soon as the sharp edge cuts through and I see blood, I wait for the relief to fill my body. I bite hard on my lip, making the line longer and deeper. My breaths are shallow, and the pain is almost nonexistent because everything else hurts more.

It’s not working anymore. Not like it did when I was younger.

I used to cut and immediately feel better.

Pain I could control. Pain I’d give to myself. A distraction. A fucking godsend in the midst of my horrible existence.

“Fuck,” I growl, slamming my palm down hard over the slice because it’s bleeding a lot.

I bang my head against the cabinet doors behind me, my eyes fluttering while vertigo takes me by surprise.

Shit. Holy fuck, did I hit a vein?

I lift my hand and more blood squirts. I reach for a towel, wrap it around my leg, and tie it as tightly as possible. The white instantly turns red. Well, this is just fucking perfect, isn’t it? I can’t do a damn thing about it, either.

If I go to the hospital, they’ll lock me up.

“Could just die,” I tell the wall. “What else do you got going for you?”

I laugh hysterically, tears squirting free while my hands shake from the exertion I’m putting into staunching my bleeding. “Fuck.Fuck!”

Panic starts without my say so, but what else am I supposed to do? Self-preservation instincts are a motherfucker when they want to be. I get to my feet, hobble back into the room, and find my phone without dropping the towel. Slumping onto the bed, I almost call Phoenix. I almost fucking do it. But then I find myself calling someone I never expected to.

And he answers on the first ring.

“Eli?”

---