Page 42 of Unholy Confessions
R: Yeah, just let me know how much.
E: $100 I'll be there soon.
The sinking pit in my stomach is only stopped by the knowledge that I'll have what I want so much in a short amount of time. I've gone from just wanting to calm my nerves, to craving. That's a problem, but it's not one I want to acknowledge. At least not yet.
I pace around my apartment, checking the time every few minutes. Thirty minutes feels like hours. When I finally hear the knock on my door, my heart rate spikes.
"Hey man," Evan says when I open the door, looking around casually like he's just stopping by to hang out. "How you been?"
"Good, yeah, good," I lie, stepping aside to let him in.
He pulls a small baggie from his pocket, holding it up between us. "Same as last time. This should last you a while if you're smart about it."
I hand him the cash, my hands steadier than I expected. "Thanks."
"Just be careful, yeah?" Evan says, pocketing the money. "This stuff can sneak up on you." Sounds like he's speaking from experience.
After he leaves, I sit on my couch staring at the baggie. It's smaller than I remember, just a few grams of white powder that could either make everything better or make everything so much worse. It's a toss up, depending on how all this ends. But the thing is. I don't have a crystal ball, I don't know how my life is going to end up.
What I do know is that I hate the way Montgomery and I left things. I don't know how to fix what's broken, because I haven't been honest with her. She knows that something is wrong, but I can't tell her, because then I have to admit what I've been doing. Not only to myself, but everyone else.
It's a no-win situation for me.
I should tell her what's wrong with me. I should apologize. I should be honest. I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I put it in my bedroom drawer and try to pretend it's not there.
But as the night rolls on, it might as well be screaming at me. I try to write, but all I can think about is that drawer. I try to watch TV, but my leg won't stop bouncing. I take two pills, then two more, but they're not helping anymore. All I can think about is the power in that goddamn baggie.
Until I can't take it anymore.
I retrieve the baggie and sit on my bed, staring at it. My hands are shaking now, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I want this so badly. I hate that I'm even considering it.
But I hate feeling like this anxiety of nothingness even more.
Those shaking hands open the baggie, thoughts screaming through my head about what this means for me. This moves me over from a recreational user to an addict. Or was I there before? Who knows at this point. All I know is I want to feel different than what I do right now.
I want to feel something, even if it's the pounding in my chest or the crushing blow of disappointment that'll wash over me as soon as I give into the urge.
I prepare a line on my nightstand, smaller than what Evan gave me that first night, because I'm scared to do this here, by myself. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Just this once," I tell myself, even though I know it's a lie.
The burn hits immediately, followed by that drip down the back of my throat. Then the rush starts – that incredible feeling of everything clicking into place, of not feeling like I'm an outcast with my own family and friends.
Within minutes, I feel invincible. Clear-headed and ten feet tall. It's as if I can solve all the world's problems with my guitar and the pen I use to write my songs.
And suddenly, I know exactly what I need to do.
I'm in my truck before I can second-guess myself, the engine roaring to life as I back out of my driveway. The drive to Montgomery's feels like it takes seconds, adrenaline and fake confidence from the drugs makes me feel as if I'm flying.
I should probably call first, but I don't want to give her a chance to tell me not to come. I need to see her. I need to fix this distance between us. It's now my fixation. Parking with a slight squeal, I turn the truck off and then take the steps two at a time, heart pounding as I stand there.
When I knock on her door, it takes her a minute to answer. She throws the door open, and there she stands;. wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, surprise on her face to see me.
"RJ? What are you doing here?"
"I don't like this," I say, pushing past her into the apartment. "This distance between us. This weird energy. It doesn't feel good, and we've never had this problem before. I don't understand why it's here now, and what we're going to do to fix it." I say this in almost one breath. Inhaling deeply, and hoping that this isn't as bad as I think it is.
