Ruined Wings

by Ashley Fontainne

  Of course, this was the first time she’d attempted coming off heroin. She knew it was a dangerous choice to do on her own after witnessing a few poor souls go through it in rehab. The time Callie was forced to sober up before had been from pills. She’d been a fool to think the experience with dope would be similar. Big H was a different monster; one with stronger teeth and a bigger bite that fought back hard when trying to slay it.

  The shakes, seizing muscles, and violent bouts of vomiting left her mind dazed and body weak. She’d spent the last seventy-two-plus hours alternating between puking in the bathroom, crying on the bed, and then to sitting in the shower until the water ran cold.

  She’d endured three days of Hell on earth inside the one-room duplex.

  Alone.

  So, when day four of trying to remain sober started out rather uneventfully, Callie was thrilled. After a few hours of restless sleep dreaming about the past, she’d shuffled to the kitchen, fixed some unbuttered toast, and managed to keep it down along with tepid coffee. It was the first time in a nearly a week she had the mental clarity and strength to contemplate getting cleaned up to head back to work.

  “Work—what a joke! Selling my body certainly wasn’t what I wanted to do for a living,” Callie muttered while swallowing the last drops of coffee. “Like Teri always said, hooking is the worst kind of job around—writhing on random kooks. Can I even do it anymore when sober? Ugh, doubtful.”

  Cooler weather and hordes of football fans and players in town meant she was missing out on some prime money. Sidestepping the trash strewn across the cracked linoleum floor, Callie walked over to the counter and opened her wallet. After counting the cash inside, she nixed the idea of trolling for johns. Enough green was stuffed inside to pay the rent on the hovel plus the light bill.

  Once the bills were paid for the month, it would leave her with less than two bucks, which wasn’t enough to buy a hit. Besides, her decision to quit cold turkey stemmed from the brutal beating she’d received a little over one week ago, coupled with Teri’s death.

  The memory of waking up in a back alleyway crammed next to a dumpster, battered, bloody, and sore, made Callie shiver. She still couldn’t believe she’d survived.

  Teri wasn’t so fortunate.

  Recalling when she touched Teri’s stiff, cold hand, made the toast and coffee threaten to come back up. She’d panicked in those wee hours of the predawn after realizing Teri was dead, a needle stuck in her arm.

  The john who picked them up enjoyed hurting Callie more because she fought back once she realized they were in danger. When Callie intervened and tried to stop the bastard from tying Teri up, all hell broke loose. The man attacked Callie without mercy, never saying a word as he pummeled her face, chest, stomach, and back until she passed out.

  The sleazebag client seemed fascinated by taking bondage to a whole new level. When he’d finally satiated himself, he’d tossed them out of his car in the dead of night. Callie could barely walk, so Teri pulled her into an alleyway, insisting they hide behind a dumpster until Callie rested up enough to make it home.

  “We can’t just go walking down the street with you looking so rough. Hell, you can barely walk! Someone would call the cops!” Teri had whispered. “I ain’t going back to jail for nothing or nobody, not even for you, KiKi. Done had my fill of being caged like a rabid dog.”

  The last thing Callie remembered before passing out again was Teri crying, mumbling about how no one had ever done something so nice for her before and how she didn’t like it one bit. “I ain’t gonna be owing anyone a thing. I ain’t!”

  Callie wondered if Teri overdosed on purpose or by accident.

  When Callie woke up—still high and minus a roommate—she did the unthinkable: she rolled her only friend and took all Teri’s cash, her ID, and the small baggie of dope inside her purse. She left Teri “Sugar Beets” Cantrell alone on the ground to be discovered by a stranger. When found, Teri would be just another statistic—another nameless, dead junkie whore whose life ended in a dirty alley on the bad side of the tracks in Memphis. She’d only glanced back once at the lifeless body of the woman who’d taken her in from the streets, showed her how to turn tricks without being controlled by some brutal pimp, and introduced her to the world of smack.

  Callie grit her teeth as Teri’s words replayed inside her head from the first night she spent inside the duplex. “The pills you like are hard to get on the streets, KiKi. This ain’t the ’burbs, honey. No parents around with medicine cabinets full of Xanax or Hydros. Government’s done cracked down hard on pharmacies. Don’t you worry, honey. I’ve got something better and cheaper to keep you straight, and there’s plenty of it around. Makes the jobs a breeze and takes the edge off a tired mind. You can stay here as long as you pay half the rent, utilities, and groceries. Oh, and help out on occasion with Simon. He’s the landlord. He’s gonna love you.”

  The words—spoken less than eight months ago—changed Callie’s life. Strung out, beyond desperate for a release from the mental torture inside her mind, Callie let Teri introduce her to the poison that killed Colton.

  The rush, the warmth, the overwhelming sense of euphoria quieting her mind took Callie’s life to a whole new level. She went from a pill head to a full-blown heroin addict seconds after her first taste of the mind-numbing bliss.

  Callie shook her head to rid herself of the memories while walking to the kitchen. Rummaging through the small fridge and cabinets, she took inventory of what remained. Though not much, it didn’t matter. She never ate regular meals anyway. The remaining items should last at least another week.

  Smiling at her resolve to stay off the streets another night, Callie settled onto the couch to watch the sunset. Seeing the vivid oranges, pinks, yellows, and hints of blue bounce off the glass and concrete of the tall buildings downtown reminded her of Colton. God, how much her twin loved to sit on the rooftop, hands flying across the canvas while recreating the images from the sky with paint!

  Thinking about Colton made her heart pound and led to thoughts of the rest of her non-existent family and friends. She didn’t think about them when the heroin train took over the tracks inside her mind, which is exactly why she let the dark horse be conductor. However, after thinking about him, Callie yearned to see his face or hear his voice again. Ever since the first prick of the needle, he’d been silent. Sherry had been right on the money—the voice inside her mind she wanted to believe was her dead brother—was addiction, and once she truly let it control her life, she didn’t need the voice to urge her on.

  Antsy and unable to sit still, she made the mistake of looking through the flimsy photo album hidden under piles of clothes and garbage next to the couch. The photos were all aged, yellowed pictures of the life she’d once led. The photo album, along with Colton’s journal and drawing pad, were the only things she’d grabbed from home after stealing the wad of cash her mother kept hidden in the closet for emergencies.

  While Callie flipped through the album crammed with smiling faces of her parents holding their twins at various stages of development, a cheesy grin plastered across their faces in every shot, her chest tightened.

  Home.

  Mom, with her long, blonde hair and lithe frame, beautiful blue eyes always full of playfulness when a camera came near.

  Dad, Callie’s hero and biggest fan. Always cheering her on, waiting at the finish line with a huge smile and big hug.

  Colton—a mirror image of Callie with shorter hair—a boy with a brilliant, creative mind and loving soul.

  Benny, their enormous, slobbering St. Bernard with a ball in his mouth in almost every picture.

  The grainy photo of Callie and Colton waving to the camera while sitting in the little plastic pool on a hot summer day when they were around six made the tears come. Callie gasped at the one of all four of them in front of their new home in the suburbs, complete with a large backyard sporting an in-ground swimming pool and a playset big enough for
all the neighborhood kids to play on. God, how happy they’d all been the day of the move-in, and how utterly devastated the two remaining Novaks had been when they moved out.

  It seemed like eons ago.

  No, it seemed like someone else’s life.

  As she neared the back pages, the photos were replaced with paper certificates. Colton won award after award for his paintings—he’d been the creative one of the pair. Callie’s were all from track and volleyball achievements since she’d been the athlete.

  The scholarship letter from UALR made her cringe with regret.

  The picture of the senior prom with Kevin made her shake with sorrow.

  The last page was the obituary notice, informing the prying eyes of the world that Joseph Jeffrey Novak and Colton Caleb Novak died in a car accident, leaving a beloved wife and cherished child behind.

  The memories sent Callie—nicknamed Kinky Kayla by her regulars—into a tailspin.

  The urge to let her mind slip away into warm, tranquil obscurity revved up, so Callie tried everything she could think of to stop it. Stuffing the photo album behind the couch, she ignored the scurry of roaches skittering across the dirty floor. Lacing up her old track shoes, Callie stepped out into the approaching night, running through the damp streets until collapsing from exhaustion.

  The mental anguish of knowing her physical stamina and strength had diminished so rapidly in such a short time made her chest heavy with remorse. During her junior year of high school, before the descent into madness with pills began, Callie ran 1600 meters in five minutes.

  Not anymore.

  Not even close.

  Another piece of her life destroyed by hard living and even harder drugs.

  Callie limped down the dirty side street, tears running down her face.

  After heating up some ramen noodles, Callie tried reading a book. Squinting at the pages made her eyes hurt, so she popped in a DVD of The Princess Bride. She’d stolen it from a convenience store shelf weeks ago. It was her favorite movie and reminded her of home. When she was little, her father told her she’d grow up to look just like Buttercup, laughing when four-year-old Callie said “Butterfly” instead of Buttercup.

  Looking down, Callie winced. The blue butterfly tattoo on her foot had been the source of numerous arguments with her mother about “permanently defacing” her body.

  “God, a clean mind is an ugly place full of tormenting memories,” Callie whispered.

  She was dying for a hit and wished there was someone to call. A friend, a sponsor, or even a fellow addict trying to stay clean.

  Someone.

  Anyone.

  Addiction destroyed all her previous relationships, leaving Callie alone in a dark, evil world full of users. Even if a single person from her old life still cared about her, she wouldn’t risk a call. Callie feared the connection might lead to her arrest, so the burner cell phone remained on the counter, untouched.

  The hunger gained momentum, controlled every thought, sparking every nerve ending. Pacing back and forth like a trapped, wild beast inside the confines of the filthy, sparsely furnished duplex, Callie was full of regret and remorse. She hated herself for being born, hated Colton for killing himself and their dad, hated her mother for being a pill head—and turning Callie into one.

  She hated the cruel, ugly world she was trapped in, allowing sick, demented strangers to do unspeakable things to her body just so she could get high.

  “What have I done to myself? How in the world did this happen to me?” Callie whimpered to the silent four walls.

  The shakes set in, followed by sweat soaking her dirty t-shirt and shorts in seconds. The rank odor of perspiration mixed with the strong aroma of the unkempt space made her feel queasy.

  Callie missed her mom—needed her more than ever and would give anything to hear her voice again.

  She wasn’t available to help, and never would be again.

  Annie Marie Novak was dead, her life cut short when a massive coronary stopped her heart. One week before last Christmas, Callie was to appear in front of Judge Hershel and plead guilty to numerous charges, including possession of Schedule II narcotics with intent to deliver and public intoxication after being arrested on campus. The plea deal, worked out by a public defender, would send Callie to prison for one year. When they pulled into the parking lot of the courthouse, the news about her remaining child’s future was just too much for Annie Novak to accept.

  When her mother’s body crumpled onto the pavement in the parking lot, Callie fled, using the ensuing chaos as a chance to escape. The moment was a get out of prison free card—one with a high price tag.

  Callie had been so out of it, so desperate, so fucking dope sick, she didn’t care. She just wanted to get out of there and get high.

  All the shame she felt that awful day nearly a year ago roared back. She’d left her mother alone, no one but strangers nearby, not even looking back once. At the time, two thoughts controlled her: freedom and pills.

  Callie had sprinted all the way to the small, two-bedroom house her mother had been renting. After busting out a window, she’d grabbed a bag, loaded it down, and then raced to De’Shawn’s house.

  She’d begged him to help her since she hadn’t snitched to the cops when she’d been arrested on campus. He agreed and took her to Memphis, in exchange for a hundred bucks and another blow job. Desperate to escape, high on the pills she’d bought from him with the cash stolen from her mother’s hidden stash, she handed over the money—and her dignity.

  Callie figured Memphis was a safe place to run. No one would ever look for her in a city and state miles from home where she knew no one.

  It wasn’t until they stopped at some filthy gas station before crossing the Mississippi River into Tennessee did she find out her mother had died. When she’d stepped into the station to use the bathroom and buy some water, it was the lead story on the news.

  The lights inside her soul shut down.

  The first two months in Memphis after De’Shawn dropped her off in a section of town that made downtown Little Rock look like Disneyland were terrifying. She’d spent most of her time bouncing from one seedy motel to another, searching for a job where she didn’t have to fill out paperwork or provide ID. That proved to be impossible—even a job as a waitress required documentation. The grand she’d stolen from her mom went fast, and at the start of month three, Callie was on the streets.

  Dirty, alone, and in need of a fix, Callie thought the cosmos finally cut her a break when a woman she’d later learn was named Teri Cantrell strutted up to her, looking her up and down with dark, dead eyes. “You just gonna sit there and cry on that bench or use those legs and ass to make you some money?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said stop that crying and get to walking. Use what your mama gave you! If you don’t do it on your own, someone you ain’t gonna like will find you and make you.”

  Still young and somewhat naïve, Callie followed Teri home, grateful for a chance to sleep under a roof.

  Shacking up with Teri turned out to be a bad decision.

  A really bad decision.

  Pills had made Callie numb to the world, but heroin turned Callie into a cold, heartless bitch.

  The memories made her head spin. She tried to pray—her soul desperate for help—but the cravings were too intense to even utter one plea. The overwhelming desire to use consumed her mind. Callie’s vision blurred, and she felt dizzy, unable to concentrate or form a clear sentence. The skin between her toes where the needle marks were hidden itched and burned. Callie’s broken fingernails dug into the tender skin, scratching so hard she drew blood.

  Collapsing to her knees, hands clasped over her ears, Callie rocked back and forth while mumbling the alphabet. “ABCDEF…” Over and over she chanted, first in only a breathy whisper. When that didn’t work, she ramped up to yelling. By the third round, she was shrieking. “ABCDEF…”

  “Stop a
ll that racket or I’m calling the landlord!”

  The gravelly voice of Randy Carlson, the obnoxious neighbor who lived in the unit next door, made Callie angry. He complained about the “shenanigans going on with those little whores in Unit B” all the time to the duplex’s owner, Simon Greenwood, usually loud enough on the phone Callie heard him through the thin walls. Randy had no idea every single time he called to complain, Teri and Callie got a visit from Simon. He wouldn’t say a word after letting himself inside the front door with his key. He’d just strip off all his clothes and wait for his needs to be met by either—or sometimes both—women.

  Ignoring the blowhard despite her fears of the landlord finding out Teri was dead and possibly kicking her out, Callie continued. “ABCDEF…”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Randy’s meaty fists pounded on the wall. “I said shut up! I learned my ABCs a long time ago and don’t need a refresher course! Jesus, just hurry up and smoke or shoot something. At least you’re quiet when high. If you need cash, have Teri come over here. She’s a better fuck than you are.”

  The words broke the last tendril of resolve. Sobbing, Callie scrambled to the bathroom, barely making it to the stained toilet before puking so hard stars appeared. Once finished, she stood and stared at the disheveled reflection looking back at her through the cracked mirror. A flicker of regret at seeing the gaunt, dirty woman with sunken cheeks, dark circles underneath dull eyes, and faded bruises and bumps, made her heart pound. Her nose hadn’t healed right and now sported a strange knot at the bridge. Two of the cuts along her cheekbones should have had stitches and were going to leave ugly scars.