Do you notice me? Can you hear the raging thoughts in my head? They control my mind and obscure my rationalization.
I smoke. A pack. The nicotine feels good, but it does nothing for this. I want something to speed my heart, slow my brain and settle my hands. I want something strong enough to kill every emotion inside me that’s suffocating me. I want to get fucked up.
When you’re hurting, when nothing takes the dark thoughts away, that’s when you’re the most vulnerable, and your mind is a dark, empty hole of instability. I don’t remember the first time the devil whispered to my soul, but I know he woke it up and I haven’t truly slept since then.
You know what makes it worse? Emotional pain. Caring. It makes you do stupid shit.
“What do you need?”
My eyes are barely open, my skin ice-cold and aching. “I need something.”
I want this pain gone. It’s what I’ve tried to destroy for years and have never succeeded, and now it seems I’ve made the pain so much worse.
“You sure? Are you competing tonight?”
It’s not a question. At least not one I’m going to answer. The dealer, the nameless face who knows me, hands me another bag of Vicodin, Oxycodone, and a bag of cocaine.
Pain makes you believe you’re not worth it. Makes you feel like you’re not worth it.
I drink.
I smoke.
I pray for darkness.
I find it.
My problem is finding it in ways I shouldn’t. Ways that lead me to trouble with no way out but down. My tortured mind screams wake up, while my soul says it doesn’t give a fuck. Leave me numb. Go back to sleep.
I don’t even know where I am. I’m on my knees in a room that’s too dark, too loud and filled with people I don’t know. I think it’s my house, but I don’t know for sure. Everything’s spinning and I’m gone. My stomach burns when images of River flash behind my closed lids.
I roll on my back and stare at darkness. There’s a steady rain falling and I’m outside now. It’s not rain, it’s water, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
How’d I get out here?
I don’t know.
I blink.
And I blink again. I breathe. And then again. My chest feels like someone is on top of me.
I’m in the middle of the yard, smoke circles pitch-black. I’m screaming, laughing, cursing, shaking my fist at the sky and calling God a son of a bitch for doing this to me. It’s not Him, it’s me.
I’m jumping around, on tables, knocking shit over. I do a line, then three, and drink. I’m full of it, swallowed whole by it. I’m fucked up beyond comprehension and comfortable for the first time in weeks.
I find a gun, whose I don’t know. Picking it up, I hold it, spin the chamber and open my mouth. I put the barrel in my mouth. It’s cold, dirty, and tastes like metal.
I hook my thumb around the trigger, only to have someone take it. “Don’t take what’s not yours,” a hard voice says.
I blink and I’m on the ground, again, this time someplace else, shaking and short of breath. My head spins. I’m dizzy. My stomach’s on fire, my mind blank.
Rising up on my elbows, my head spins again while my body threatens to give out.
As I look around, there’s a girl on her knees, my dick in her mouth. The heat leaves my body all at once and I start to shake. “Stop,” I say, but she doesn’t listen.
I blink.
And again.
I think I see Shade, but I can’t see, everything is so blurry and dark. I try blinking again. Maybe it will stop.
More images. It’s all wrong, and my stomach turns, my throat tight as the vomit rises.
The girl on her knees, she’s the wrong girl so I push away.
Lifting my hand, it feels so weighted, I push against her. “Fuck you. Get away from me.” I don’t say it loud enough. She stays.
I try to move back, but she doesn’t let me, her hands circle around my waist. “Come on, baby. I can get you off.”
She’s wrong.
I don’t want her. Or this.
“Get off him!”
That voice is familiar. Substance swims in my veins, my pulse like a heavy drum beat. I turn to the voice.
My body is heaved by strong arms that hold me close to his chest.
It’s Shade.
“Tiller. . ..” His voice is distant, but he helps me up. “What did you take?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pry one eye open. It’s hard, an effort I don’t have.
“You’re naked. I’m trying to get your fucking shorts on.” He taps my knee. “Help me out. Lift up. I need to get you to the hospital.”
I roll away from him, or at least I think I do. “Let me die.”
I think I say her name, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s my mind that won’t let it go. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I’m on the floor in our house and puking. Ricky’s there, holding a bucket. Scarlet’s rubbing my back.
“Jesus. . . .”
“What did he take?”
“Fuck.”
“I don’t know.”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
I moan, shaking my head. Let me fucking die. Make it stop.
“Are you all right?”
I nod. I’m fucked up.
“You need help.”
I shake my head. “I decide what I need.”
They stare. I’m talking, but the words aren’t coming out.
“I think we should call 911.”
I moan again. “No. . . ,” I manage to get out. They don’t hear me.
I’m not okay, but I know this feeling, and eventually, I’ll pass out and this pain will subside.
Ready for the tragic ending?
My life is insignificant.
Heavy, huh?
It’s the truth.
Kill the beast.