Killian
I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. I’m not the type of guy who is easily stunned. When you’re in my line of work, you can’t afford to be. Get stunned, you get killed. But as I look down at her, I can’t move. My mouth hangs open in disbelief, in shock. I feel like jumping into the water just to wake myself up.
The scenario plays itself out in my mind.
She woke up when I was asleep, found her needle, and shot up. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t wake up until morning and she could ride it out for the night. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t notice. Maybe she thought it was no big deal. Maybe she thought she could somehow get away with it. I don’t know. I can’t pretend to follow her logic. All I know is that she’s high right now. Her pupils are dilated and she can’t speak and there’s a goddamn track mark in her arm, the faint outline of a belt higher up. She’s taken something and now she’s high.
She’s stopped laughing and now she just stares up at the sky, her face expressionless, a zombie’s face. Seeing Hope’s face like that—laughing, cocky, sarcastic Hope—makes me want to punch something, to break my fist on it. I go over my time with Hope in my mind, searching for some sign that she was an addict all along, searching for something which will tell me she’s been using this entire time.
I can’t find a thing, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything. Addicts are skilled at hiding their addiction, at least functioning addicts are.
Dammit, I think, stepping over Hope and going to the boat controls. Dammit!
I told her that was my one rule, that was my one condition. No drugs. I told her! That was it! No drugs! I couldn’t have made it any clearer, could I? I couldn’t have told her any more specifically. Goddamn it! No drugs! How hard is that! No goddamn drugs!
I drive the boat back to the dock as quickly as I can, and then stop it and tether it. Then I go to Hope and kneel down beside her. She lies on her side, knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the deck of the boat.
“Hope,” I say. “Where did you get the drugs? Can you tell me that? Where did you get them?”
She smiles—and then the smile bursts into a laugh.
“It’s not funny!” I roar at her. “You know that was it! That was my one rule—”
I stop myself. It’s no use shouting at her. She doesn’t even know where she is. And anyway, she took the drugs. That’s a solid fact. The track mark is right there, pricked in her arm, right there. I have to keep saying it because I can’t believe it. Hope, my Hope, my woman, a drug addict? It sounds like a sick joke.
I scoop my hands underneath her armpits and pull her up to my chest, so that I can carry her from the boat. Just touching her makes me angry. She’s deadweight, flopping in my arms, not supporting herself in the slightest. I wonder if perhaps Dawn left some gear lying around and that was how Hope got her hands on it. Or if Hope found a number for Dawn’s dealer and that was how she got it. All these thoughts go over and over in my head. I want to find who sold it to her. I want to know.
But most of all I want to be rid of her.
I can’t take being near her right now, not when she’s like this. I heave her over my shoulder, fireman’s lift, and carry her off the boat and lay her down on the dock, as gently as I can.
Then I take out my cell and call Patrick.
“Are you sure?” Patrick says. “Seriously?”
“I’m not in the mood for questions,” I tell him. “Just get here, now, and get her back to her apartment. Is Dawn at the apartment?”
“Yeah, she went home today.”
“Good,” I grunt, crushing the phone in my hand, the corners digging into my palm. “Her sister can take care of her. I’m not going to be the fool who does it. Let me tell you that. I won’t. I told her, Patrick. No drugs. I told her, more than once. And not only does she do drugs, she does them while I’m next to her, sleeping, after we—”
I cut short, breathing heavily. I feel like I need to be sick, but I won’t with Patrick on the phone.
“Just get to the dock, you know the one.”
“Where Dad’s old boat is.”
“Yeah. Hurry.”
Patrick sighs down the phone. “Okay,” he says. “But I just can’t believe it.”
“I’m telling you it’s true!” I roar, holding the phone in front of me and shouting down at it like it’s a person, like Patrick’s standing right there. “Just fucking get here and get rid of her! I don’t want to see her when she’s like this!”
Then I hang up the phone and sit on the dock, next to where Hope lies.
She rocks back and forth, unaware of what she is doing, one second staring up at the stars, the next second staring down at the dock. One moment she’s giggling, the next she’s looking pensive. But always, no matter what she’s doing, her eyes are empty of life. She’s there, but she’s not there. She’s somewhere else, floating.
And this was the start of it, I think, rubbing at my eyes. No tears—I won’t cry. Not for her. Not for someone who breaks my one rule. Not for someone with a fucking track mark in their arm.
This was the start of everything.
Before I went to sleep, I remember thinking that this was a perfect night, a perfect moment, and that Hope was perfect for me. I’ve never felt closer to anyone, I’ve never felt like I can open up, and on and on and on . . . but it was all useless, all fool’s nonsense. Because the whole time she was waiting for me to close my eyes just so she could shoot up. She was waiting for me to close my eyes just so she could get her fix.
I look down at her.
“Why, Hope? Why, when you knew it would hurt me so much?”
She smiles, a pointless smile, completely unrelated to reality. Just smiling because she’s high as a kite.
I pick up Hope and carry her down the dock and to a bench. Then I take my leather and drape it over her. I hate her—or what she did, at least—but I don’t want her to freeze to death. I just wish she was awake so I could talk to her about it. I wish she was awake so I could make her see how she’s hurt me.
Every time I begin to try and understand where she’s coming from, every time I try and guess why she might’ve done it, I see the track marks and my teeth clench so hard a bolt of pain shoots through my head. I can’t understand. I can’t begin to understand because I told her. It was my one rule and I told her. No drugs—no drugs—no drugs!
Finally, a car pulls up behind us.
I turn and see Patrick step out, wearing his leathers, his face as concerned as mine probably looks.
“Killian,” he says when he reaches us. “Don’t you at least want to wait until—”
“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t. I don’t want to wait for anything. I don’t want to wait until any goddamn thing. Look at her arm, Patrick, and then tell me I should wait. How many of the men wanted to get into drugs, eh? Don’t bother with an answer. I’ll tell you. Most of them.”
“Not me,” Patrick mutters.
“No, not you, but a lot. And did I let them? No. Why? Because I don’t tolerate that shit. My rules don’t change just because I feel—feel something for the user. They don’t change at all. Get it?”
“I guess so—”
“Great,” I say. “That’s fantastic. Take her home, then.”
Patrick bends down and scoops Hope up. She doesn’t make any sound now. She’s completely passed out, her eyes closed, her lips twisted into a sick smile, her chest rising and falling. He carries her to the car and lays her on the backseat, and then closes the door.
“Where did she get the drugs?” he calls, standing half-in, half-out of the driver’s side. “Did you find the needle?”
“She must’ve chucked it overboard when she was done with it,” I say bitterly. “She must’ve been too high to care. I don’t know. Just get her out of here.”
Patrick sighs and closes the door, and then the car drives away into the night.
Goodbye, Hope, I think, and then mount my bike and kick it into life.
Goodbye, my love.
I ride into the darkness.