Covet

by James, Ella

  “Addict. Junkie. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, of course.” I flinch at his hard tone, and I feel his body stiffen against mine. I lower my arms to my sides and look up at him.

  “I’m afraid I—I can’t imagine you…as that. You’re so—” What I want to say is, he’s so handsome. He looks strong and healthy. “Sensible” is what I stammer instead. “Smart,” I add. “And you’re…well, you’re Homer Carnegie. How can that be true?”

  I watch his jaw tighten, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales. His eyes close on the exhale.

  “That’s why you’re here? To dry out? Or the equivalent?”

  He nods once.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He rubs his forehead, his face angled toward the ground. “Figured we’d be out in time.”

  In time…for what? “To avoid withdrawal?”

  His hand covers his face, though I see his lips; I see them twist as he bites his cheek. “I was tapering. That night you came in…I was fucking stupid. I had everything in that one bottle.” He sighs softly. “And I dropped it in the tub.”

  My mouth opens. “That’s what you were doing with the water. You jumped up and…” I can see him in my memory, which makes my cheeks warm. “You were tapering your dosage, to decrease…to quit. Therefore you had brought some along. And...was it all ruined?”

  He nods, his gaze meeting mine for one small moment before dipping back down to the ground.

  “That’s what you were at the clinic for, the time I saw you in the street?”

  He exhales. “I was going to ask the doctor. But I saw you.” His mouth tugs up a bit on one side, revealing his dimple.

  “Oh, Declan. And I suppose that’s why you offered to help with the herding? To butter me up?”

  He rubs his head, and then gives me a guilty look.

  “Well, that backfired quite spectacularly.”

  He angles himself slightly away from me, and I sense more than hear him take a long breath.

  After that, he sits down. I can feel it—him turning away from me. He got the secret out, and now he’s feeling…bare. Perhaps ashamed.

  “You could feel the seizure coming.” I’m thinking aloud. “That’s why you went at the rocks that way. It wasn’t out of temper.”

  “No—it was.” He sighs.

  I stand over him for a moment before sitting by him on the cave’s floor.

  “I didn’t know,” I whisper.

  His hand is on his knee. I see it trembling and move to put mine over it. That’s when he turns himself away. And there’s a choice for me to make. If I’m brave enough to touch him. But it’s not a choice. From behind him, I wrap my arms around him.

  * * *

  Declan

  If there was one thing I could change, it would be the shaking. I hate the unsteadiness. The Red Sox hate it worse. Since my last detox—Alaska in November 2016—I’ve never quite come off the Valium. When I cut below a certain point, my hands just…shake. And I can’t throw. We tried some other stuff, but nothing stops the shaking. My fingers sweat and I can’t focus. Even months after.

  The rehab before that—Connecticut in spring 2015—I cut everything and got completely “clean”…and nearly lost my starting job to fucking twitchiness and paranoia. So the board covered for me. Not the whole board…mostly just the chair. We worked together with a few others from the club to game “random” screenings. They weren’t frequent anyway, because the league had never really known. Before my draft, some people whispered, but it never was substantiated. Mostly due to school being in Switzerland. I never did rehab in college, stateside. Not a quitter.

  I can’t tell if Finley heard me when I whispered, “Please don’t.” She doesn’t let go of me. I can’t stand her touching me right now. I stand up, forcing her arms off me, and she stands, too, looking like I just killed her kitten.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs.

  “It’s fine.”

  It’s not. Even my voice shakes. As I walk back to the sleeping bag, I hear this static kind of thing, like several voices talking at once. Spooky shit like that has always been a problem for me when I try to get off benzos. Makes my heart beat triple-time, and my head throbs so badly that I’m pretty sure I’m going to get sick again.

  Thank God, I hold that shit off.

  She doesn’t know how much I hate the blankets. Hate the softness of them. Hate the air without them. How I hate it on my side and on my back and on my chest. Everything…so uncomfortable and just…miserable. The way that feeling wraps around your soul. There’s no way for anyone to understand who hasn’t been here. I feel like I can’t take it, but I can’t will my heart to stop, so I just pull my hair. It’s something I can do that won’t scare her.

  If I was at home…needles. Any needle does it. Rated PG, baby—no syringe required. I just need the bite to fake myself out. For a second after spiking something pretend, I can feel a little bit of relief.

  I have a trail of sharp, white knife scars down the inside of my thighs. Before I started spiking shit, before it was about the needle, I’d come down from something snorted or swallowed and need something to…lift me. Lying here, I’ve thought of that; I could get a sharp stone.

  But…Finley.

  I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want her knowing…any of it. I have never wanted anyone to know. I got in trouble a few times at Carogue—shipped off once, my last year there—but all the other times, I detoxed in my room. Coke and pills and even Xanny back then—it was easy to come off it.

  I stretch out on my back. Finley sits beside me. With my eyes shut, I can’t see how close she is…but I can feel her.

  “I don’t want to crowd you.” I can feel the tension around us; tension that I’ve caused by being such a fucking freak. “Can I ask you a few things? If you don’t want me to—”

  I nod, because I’ll do whatever she asks. It’s not her fault she’s stuck here with me.

  She leans over—too close. Before I told her this shit, I kind of liked her soft hands on my face and in my hair. But now I don’t think I can stand it.

  “I just want to understand, so I can help you.” She sounds nervous. “Does the word ‘benzo’ mean benzodiazepine? Like…the sort of tranquilizers?”

  I nod, taking care to keep my face impassive. My eyes are still shut.

  “What about subs. Could you tell me about that one?”

  “Suboxone.” I put my hand over my eyes and force myself to say it. “It helps you stay away from heroin.”

  I’m not looking, but I fucking feel her shock.

  You can dissolve the strips and spike them, too, if you want.

  “It’s not the good stuff, but it can keep you from the bad withdrawal and…keep away temptation.” I exhale slowly, turning my face away from her. “A lot of addicts end up on it.”

  “That’s what you dropped into the tub, then? Suboxone and…what else?”

  “Valium, GABA, 5-HTP, Sam-e, Clonidine…”

  I see her face in my head: her doe eyes widening, even as she does that thing with her mouth where she bites her lip, trying to look chill when she isn’t.

  “You were taking those then?”

  I almost want to laugh. Her tone is cautious—as if I’m made of fucking glass.

  “It’s the subs and Valium I was coming off. When you’re quitting benzos, Valium’s just the thing you taper off. And Clonidine and the other shit is just to make it better.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The other shit was shit to help with withdrawal.”

  “It was all in the one bottle?”

  “Smart, huh?” I had important shit in one giant ibuprofen bottle I could carry around when I was jonesing, and over-the-counter stuff in another one. When she walked in on me, I had been squeezing it, trying not to take a top-off dose of Valium.

  Silence swims between us. Even though I’m distracted by my throbbing head, I can feel her biting her tongue. Not askin
g the thing she really wants to know. So I just spare her.

  “Always been an addict, Siren.” I want to add since seventh grade, but I know that I could never get that out. “Started early. I can quit. That’s not the problem.”

  “What is? Do you relapse?”

  I nod. I’ve detoxed—big detoxes—twelve times total, but I can’t stay clean. It’s my superpower. All-star pitcher. Carnegie. Closet addict. Puts the junk in junkie.

  I rub my eyes. I’m tired of my own thoughts, the endless looping track of them.

  “So now you know my secret.” I force myself to look at her. “I’ll be better on my feet soon and can help you more.”

  “But now?” It’s murmured. Siren’s looking at me through her lashes—one of her shy tells.

  “Right now, you’re on your own, chief.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says softly.

  “Sleep will help me.”

  I wait for her to call bullshit. When she doesn’t, I wonder if she’s noticed I can’t sleep…I just lie here. If she knows, she doesn’t call me on it.

  Pretty soon, that drifting thing is happening again—the one where I feel like half of me is somewhere else. Like all the blood in my body is blinking. Once, when I was herding on the Alps, I ran into someone’s electric fence. That’s what this is like: like that first half-second when your muscles jerk, before the sizzle.

  Still, I feel her there beside me. Blood booms in my ears, obscuring all my other senses, but I feel her worry. I wish I could tell her not to. Someone who doesn’t know benzos from subs shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. She shouldn’t be stuck in here with me.

  I turn my back to her again and sink my hands into my hair.

  Nineteen

  Finley

  I can scarcely stand to swing the hammer at the rock, despite knowing it’s the best thing. Everything in me yearns to go to him…to sit beside him, talk to him. To joke with him. Even, I realize with alarm, to touch him.

  I do nothing of the sort, however. He’s made his desires clear—from the moment I hugged him beside the stream and he murmured “please don’t” to the end of our conversation, where he turned away from me. Declan doesn’t want me nearby.

  I’ve spent enough time in his presence now that I can read his face. I can see how poorly he is. He’s still pale, with those poor, lost-looking eyes. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop sweating or tossing about the covers. He must be so miserable. But he doesn’t want my comfort.

  Where before, he looked at me and spoke to me to fill the hours, now when he sits up and peels open a bar, he won’t even lift his head in my direction. He chews a bit—not much, I think—and turns back on his side, away from me.

  I see him writhing, hear him panting.

  When I check on him a while later, offering some water, he won’t move his arm from his face.

  “Hi there, Sailor. I’ve just come to offer water.”

  “I had some.” The words are half groaned.

  “Is there anything you need…that I could—”

  He shakes his head. He’s quiet and still, and then he’s trembling again. I curl my hand into a fist and press my lips together as I look down at him. “Tell me if there’s something I can do to ease you. Do you promise?”

  He nods.

  I return to work, going hard until I feel delirious. As I’m swinging the hammer, I notice him get up. He walks to the stream and then back toward me, stopping a few meters away to steady himself with a palm against the wall. After a long moment, he walks to me without looking at my face. His eyes are lifted to the cave’s mouth. Standing near me, he frowns at the boulder. When he doesn’t remark on the truly massive amount of rock I’ve brought down around the rim, my stomach flips.

  “Declan?”

  His eyes move over me. The look is fleeting; flat. I watch as he walks behind the rubble pile to tend his business. I wait for him to emerge. When he does, he’s staring straight ahead and walking slowly. He walks halfway to the stream before abruptly stopping. He sits against the wall across from his pallet, knees raised, his hand curving around one of them.

  I watch as he rubs his hands back through his hair. He appears to stare out at the pallet. I can see his shoulders rising…falling. Another few times with his hands back through his wild, dark hair, and he gets to his feet. He walks toward the cave’s rear, pacing with his shoulders heaving. Even from a distance, I can feel him working to contain himself.

  Back and forth he paces.

  I don’t know him, I realize. I know nearly nothing of him. Only that entrapment is his greatest fear, and he can’t bear life fully conscious. I’ve had thoughts of that myself, looking at the bottles in the clinic. They say ignorance is bliss, and numbness surely is the chief respite of any feeling person.

  I wonder what kind of pain he must be in, and, once again, I ache to go to him.

  I turn my want into brute force and bring down showers of stone.

  Finally, he returns to the sleeping bags, this time stretching out face-down. He wraps his arm around his head and shifts onto his side…then stretches back out on his belly, flexing his legs. He’s breathing so deeply, his back pumps.

  “Declan?” It’s so soft, he doesn’t hear it, so I set the hammer down and go to him. I kneel beside him, touch his back.

  He moves like a viper, so fast I can’t process. I see nothing but the cave’s ceiling rocking in my field of vision; he’s on top of me, his body warm and heavy as his forearm pins my throat. I try to scream, and when that doesn’t work, I sink my nails into the arm that’s propping him atop me.

  Declan blinks down at me. He looks dazed, confused, and then his eyes pop open wide in horror. He scrambles away from me.

  A sob escapes my sore throat as I sit up.

  “Finley?” He looks anguished.

  I put a hand out, warning him to stay away, and watch as his face crumples. “Oh Christ, did I say Laurent?”

  “What?”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “You were dreaming.” Even as my voice cracks, I feel calmer. I see sweat roll down his temple, and I’m quite sure that I’ve never seen his face so drawn and weary.

  His shoulders start to heave as he clutches his brow. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you were dreaming.” I swallow, rubbing my throat. “What was it about?”

  “If I say that name again, just get away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t wake up.”

  I wait for more words, but he doesn’t offer any. He lies on his back, drawing his knees up before shifting onto his side, tugging at his hair so hard it surely hurts.

  “Jesus…” He breathes like a woman in labor. His wide shoulders jerk, as if he might weep, but he doesn’t. He just breathes, and rubs his shoulder.

  “Come here.”

  I’m in front of him in an instant, close enough that I can feel him trembling.

  His dazed eyes peek open, lifting to mine. His hand kneads his shoulder. “Press it back…”

  “What?”

  He rolls the shoulder. “Push on it.” His voice is thick.

  “Why?” I whisper. At that same moment, he rasps, “Please.”

  I put my hand there on his shoulder. It feels warm and damp under my palm, the muscle hard and thick and twitching with his tremors. “What now?” I whisper.

  He shifts onto his back, his left hand cupping my hand. “Push on it. Hard as you can.”

  “I’m afraid of hurting you.”

  “You won’t.” When I don’t reply, he grits, “Please.” His eyes are squinted with pain, his sweat-slick face contorted.

  So…I do what he asks. I lean over him and hold the place between his throat and shoulder with my left hand, while I cup his shoulder and push down hard with my right.

  “Harder,” he grunts.

  I push harder, and he moans. The way his eyes and face flash open in alarm makes me let him go. “I hurt you!”

  Something
glimmers in the corner of his eye as his face twists. His left hand clutches his shoulder, and guilt racks me.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Wanted it.” The words are almost slurred. “That’s why…I had you do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” His eyes blink slowly. “I don’t…feel real.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shakes his head, closing his eyes again. He rubs his forehead. When he looks up at me, his eyes are more unfocused than I’ve ever seen them. “Sorry…and thank you.”

  “How do you feel now?” My heart is racing.

  “Okay.” But his face is drawn in pain.

  I lay my hand over his heart, feeling its fast thrum. Declan’s sweaty, shaking hand comes over mine—and then, as if he realizes he’s sweaty, he lifts it, cringing.

  “Sorry for…” His lips are trembling ever so slightly. Behind his eyelids, I can see his eyes moving as if he’s dreaming.

  I lean in closer, stroking his hair off his forehead.

  “Finley?”

  “Yes?”

  He looks up at me, and then his eyelids fall shut.

  I smooth his hair back a few more times, hoping it’ll rouse him, but he doesn’t move. His forehead is cool and clammy. I check his pulse. There’s no question that his heart is beating more quickly than logical considering he’s scarcely moving.

  As I’m leaning over him, his body twitches and his eyes snap open. When he sees me, he starts breathing hard, and then he scrambles back, wide-eyed.

  “Declan?”

  He holds his hands out, shaking hard. Then he looks down, murmurs something.

  “Are you all right?”

  He looks confused.

  “It’s just Finley…here to help you.”

  He looks up at me, but the terror on his face won’t dissipate.

  “Sailor…you know me, right?”

  I watch him swallow.

  “Siren,” I say gently. “We met on the island.”

  Once again, he looks around. When his gaze lands on me again, his features twist into a grimace.

  “Finley…” he rasps. “Something’s wrong with me.”