Me: Where are you? I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m here. I’m waiting for you, Reina. I’m at the train station waiting for the 2 o’clock like I always do. Why haven’t I heard from you? Get here. I’m waiting.
I DON’T KNOW what’s going on, but it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen or heard from Reina. Two weeks! After everything we’ve said to each other. After everything we’ve been through together. What the hell is going on with her that she’s stopped responding to my texts and hasn’t shown up on the train? After six months together, she’s not responding now. I can’t have that. I gave parts of myself to Reina I didn’t even know I had in me. She can’t do this to me now.
As I stand on the platform waiting for her train to arrive, surrounded by people teeming with excitement—dressed in their best outfits to impress the people coming to visit them, I think about the last time Reina and I were together. We were in my house, lying on my bed after having sex again, and I remember how she rubbed my skin as she stared off into space, focusing on nothing in particular.
“I could stay like this forever,” she’d said, and I remember thinking that if I didn’t love her the way I do, I would’ve pushed her off my bed and told her to go annoy somebody else with her sensitivity, but I stayed with my arm around her, pulling her body closer to mine, both of us wearing nothing but the thin black covers that adorn my bed.
“Mmm,” I’d replied. “Words like that are usually off limits—out of bounds. But when they’re coming from you, babe, they’re music to my ears.”
She’d smiled without looking at me, and I watched her mouth transform into that beautiful grin, feeling my heart kick up a notch at the sight of it. I didn’t say it, but I thought it in that moment. I’m so in love with you. How did you do this to me? Why do I love it so much?
We stayed like that for another hour and a half before she had to get back on the train to head home. It was a normal day. So why haven’t I heard from her since then?
Now I’m surrounded by a bunch of idiots who I’d normally ignore as they pass me, staring at my tattoos—I’ve added another one, extending the flames up my left arm and nearly reaching my elbow now. I’ve gotten use to ignoring some things, but since Reina disappeared on me, ignoring everything is becoming harder to do. As I hear the train approaching in the distance, it takes everything in me not to flip out on someone. I’m going to blow a gasket soon, but I focus on the oncoming train. Reina has to be on it.
Please be on the train, Reina. Be on the train!
It’s almost here now, and I remember the way she said goodbye to me before she left for the last time. She leaned in and kissed me with everything she had in her. I wanted to lay her down on the ground and give it to her right then and there, but I knew she had to go. She couldn’t risk her parents getting home before her, so she kissed me, we hugged, I squeezed her ass, and she got on the train, smiling at me all the way up until the train pulled away and we couldn’t see each other anymore. I remember watching her go. I remember her smiling. I remember her frosty blue eyes doing their work on me and forcing a smile out of me. I didn’t even try to fight it this time.
Be on the train!
The brakes squeak loudly as the gray train comes to a roaring stop in front of me. The sound is deafening, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat. I feel my breathing becoming heavier as the doors open and people start filing out in a rush of endless bodies, cramming into each other. There’s so many of them, but if Reina’s on the train, she knows where I stand to wait for her. She’s knows I’m here, so I’ll wait her out. The crowd parts like the Red Sea around me, and the people passing me look me up and down before going on their miserable way. Families and friends embrace around me, greeting each other with all the joy and happiness I’d usually feel when I see Reina coming. But I don’t feel anything today.
More people come out of all the open doors, but the number of people getting off the train is starting to dwindle down. Less and less are stepping through the open doors, and I feel like my nerves are on fire. Even less people now, and finally, the doors to the train all close at the same time with a loud hiss. My heart sinks into my stomach, making me feel nauseous. The train pulls away. My hands drop to my sides in disappointment. Reina’s not here. Again.
Me: Goddamn it, Reina! Where are you? I’ve been being as patient as I can, but not hearing from you is taking its toll. I need to see you. Call me. Text me. Hell, just show up and surprise me at my house for all I care. Just let me know what is going on. What the hell is going on?!
I text her again and shove my phone back into the pocket of my jeans so hard I feel like I’m going to tear a hole in the fabric. After another ten minutes of waiting to see if she’s going to pop up out of nowhere, I force myself to walk away, dragging my Timberland boots. She doesn’t respond to my text. Again.
My brain feels like it’s an egg in a frying pan right now. I’m simmering as the heat within me rises. I can barely stand the fact that Reina hasn’t shown up or responded to me in two weeks, but it’s not just that. Walking towards my house just reminds me that Whitney is there, and she’s been especially annoying these past few days. Not hearing from Reina in all this time is making dealing with Whitney harder too. I feel like my entire body is tightening. I feel it—soon I will snap, and everything around me will be destroyed.
I should’ve known my tattoos looked too expensive, because my mother has honed in on them. She acted like she hadn’t noticed the first one, but since I added more fire and the colors are so vibrant with orange and blue, she finally spoke up and inquired about them. She wanted to know how I could afford them, and I told her a friend of mine had gotten an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor, and he was using me to practice. She let it go once, then asked about it again a few days later like she’d forgotten what I told her. Since I explained it to her that second time, I keep catching her staring at my arm like she’s wondering what’s up with me. I don’t think she believes me anymore, and that’s not good.
After my slow, tired walk through Strawberry Mansion, I finally make it back to my house. I feel like a ten-ton weight is resting on my shoulders as I push the door open and step into the disgusting living room. It looks especially gross today, but I don’t bother giving the energy to care. I ignore the extra burn marks on the couch and step past the glass coffee table covered in spoons. I know Whitney wasn’t eating anything with those spoons, but I press on. What’s the use? As I enter the short, narrow hallway, I see Whitney’s door to her room is closed like always, and when I walk past it on my way into the basement, I don’t hear a peep coming from inside. Whitney is probably asleep, also known as passed out from her medicine. From the look of the living room, she has paid some dealer in sexual favors and gotten herself a new supply.
I saunter down the squeaky steps and throw myself onto my shitty mattress. When Reina is down here with me, it’s like I’m living in a suite at the top of some fancy hotel. When she’s not here, the room morphs back into the dank, moldy, dark basement it really is. I hate it here. Even with all the money Nix and I have stolen, it’s still a shithole, and everything about everything feels darker right now—without Reina.
I wish she never would’ve come into my life if she was going to vanish and leave me even more broken than I was before I met her. I’m not sure how much more damage my mind and spirit can take. Reina was the Band-Aid that covered my wounds every time she came around. When she would go home, the bandage would be ripped off again, leaving my aching, rotting flesh exposed to the elements. But every time she came around, the wounds were re-covered—the tormenting pain was reduced. Everything is exposed now, and I feel like I have more wounds than ever.
I turn myself over on my bed and exhale as I look around the room at how ugly everything has become once again. The entire space feels darker than usual as my TV is the only light on and casts shadows on everything. But as my eyes scan the room, something grabs my attention.
The nightstand that the TV rests beside is different. The bottom drawer on the far left where I keep my underwear is ajar, and the boxer briefs are on the floor in a small pile. My heart comes to life in a millisecond and starts to pound in my chest as my blood begins to race and heat up my skin from the inside out. The boxer briefs in that drawer were resting on top of some of my money. I used the underwear to deter Whitney if she ever came down here while I was out and decided to snoop around. The drawer is one of the many hiding places for the money I’ve taken, but there was roughly two grand in that drawer.
I jump out of the bed and run to the dresser, snatching the rickety drawer open only to find that it’s empty. All two thousand dollars in cash is missing. Not one single dollar is left inside.
Whitney.
My blood boils at a million degrees Celsius beneath my skin as I stand up and turn on every light in my room so I can inspect. Sure enough, I can tell she’s been down here moving my stuff around, but trying to put things back in their place so I wouldn’t know. I keep some of my money stuffed between my mattresses, and none of that has been moved. Most of the money, however, I keep in the black footlocker tucked away in the dark corner, next to the one with the clothes and jewelry in it. I run to the corner and I can see that the locks on both of the footlockers have been hit with something because they have very obvious scratches and dents on them. Nonetheless, the locks did their job and kept her out. All of the money is safe except the two grand I hid in the underwear drawer. That’s what I get for hiding money in such a cliché place.
Stupid!
Now, what am I to do about Whitney taking my money? Yeah, yeah, I know she’s my mother, but there has to be consequences for taking my hard-earned cash. She doesn’t realize what I had to go through to get it. I had to work for it, and after all that’s happened today, I’m in no mood to play around with Whitney, and I’m in no mood to have my money stolen by my own mother!
I slam the underwear drawer closed and stomp up the stairs, turning in the hallway and stopping at Whitney’s closed door. Just like before, I can’t hear anything inside. I’m sure she’s passed out, especially after having access to two grand and being able to buy as much heroin as she wants. I don’t care if she’s passed out. It’s wake up time.
“Whitney!” I bark as I slam my fist on the door four times. “Open the door, Mother! I know you’ve been in my room, and we’re gonna have to have a conversation about what’s off-limits to you. Get up and open the door.” I bang on the door some more, but there’s no movement on the other side. There’s nothing but silence.
Silence.
Suddenly, my heart feels like it skips a beat. I’ve always said it; after the silence comes a storm, and right now, I’ve never been surrounded by more silence.
Something’s wrong.
I bang on the door again. “Whitney, open the door.” More banging, and more silence. “Mom, come on. Open the door. Now. Mom. Mom?”
I turn the door knob, and of course it’s locked. She always locks it when she’s getting high. She’s done it that way since I was a kid, and I’ve always known when the door’s locked, she’s either getting high, or getting screwed by some piece of trash in exchange for drugs. I slam my fist on the door again, but there’s still no movement inside.
“Goddamn it, Whitney!” As a new fear hijacks my emotions, I lift my leg and kick the living hell out of the door to Whitney’s room, sending it flying open and breaking the doorknob in the process.
The room is bright with light from the lamp on the nightstand as well as the overhead light in the middle of the ceiling, so I can see everything as clear as day. In the middle of the room is my mother’s sheet-less bed, and on the bed are multiple spoons and syringes scattered about, mixed in with countless tiny plastic bags filled with a yellow substance. Heroin—lots of it.
In the center of the filthy bed is my mother’s unmoving body. She’s wearing nothing but a white tank top and black panties as she lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. She has a black leather belt strapped around her left arm, and a needle dangles loosely in her skin. Her legs are tucked under her body like she collapsed backwards onto them, and her mouth is open. And then the most telling evidence of all. Vomit. Running down the side of Whitney’s mouth is a thick layer of foamy white vomit, and it runs down her left cheek, forming a frothy pool on the bare mattress next to her.
I don’t have to step into the room to know what has happened. I can see it just from the slightest glance. Whitney got high from buying a lot of drugs with my money—two thousand dollars’ worth of heroin—and she overdosed in her bed while I was out waiting for Reina at the train station.
So many emotions run through me as I look at her: fear, anger, rage, hatred, sadness. My mind spins into an incomprehensible frenzy as I stand in the doorway and look upon my mother’s twisted dead body, smelling the stench of her bodily fluids soaking into the mattress. I feel overwhelmed in a way that I can’t even begin to explain, and I can’t bring myself to move from this spot. So I just stand there staring, frozen in place.
Just like that, the life of an addict has come full circle the way it so often does in poor neighborhoods like Strawberry Mansion. This is what happens in the hood. This is what has happened to so many people who live like me—so many people who I’ve known in this hellhole. Now it has happened to me.
My mother’s medicine didn’t cure her of anything. It destroyed her. It killed her. My mother is dead.