Madman

by Ws Greer

  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 d
ollars 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.

  SIX IS THE magic number.

  After my mother died in her bed last week, I set up the funeral for a week later. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, and I didn’t even know who to call to tell that Whitney had died, but something deep down must’ve expected better than this.

  Six people have shown up to lay my mother to her final resting place. Six. That’s all she could muster up in death. She only managed to touch six lives in her lifetime. Only six people cared enough to show up to this rainy, gray, sad, depressing display of bullshit being put on by this preacher. Six. People.

  Allow me to set the scene. Farthest away from me is the preacher—an old white man in the usual black attire, a clean shaven face, and an old bible he’s probably had for longer than I’ve been alive. His eyes are glued to the pages of what people call the good book, although I’m not sure how it’s labeled as good with all that condoning of murder, slavery, and rape in there, but I guess people choose to ignore the things that contradict what they hope and wish to be true. The old preacher is probably sixty or so, and he has no clue who the hell Whitney was. He’s never seen her before in his life, but he’s here, doing what he’s done for countless other people he didn’t know, reading in the same monotone voice others have surely been annoyed by. Obviously uncomfortable, he won’t dare look up from the words in that book.

  Next to him are three people I don’t know, but I’ve seen them around at some point in my life. They must’ve heard in the streets that Whitney died, or read it in the paper. At some point in time they’ve passed through the house, or we’ve walked past them, or I just recognize them from some faded memory of my childhood. I don’t know anything about them, and they don’t know anything about me. We’re strangers, but I still think higher of them than I do the preacher. At least they knew Whitney.

  Next to them and on the other side of Nix are two women who I know for a fact knew my mother. I recognize them without question. Both of them are tall and slender with brown hair and dark blue eyes that remind me so much of my mother’s I can barely look at them. They’re draped in nearly identical black dresses and share the same solemn faces. They’re my aunts Theresa and Vanessa. Both of them are older than Whitney was, and they cut off communication with my mother so long ago that in this moment they have no idea that their now eighteen-year-old nephew is standing next to them, staring at them and wondering why the hell they aren’t even crying. I don’t remember when the last time I saw them was, but it’s obviously been so long that they can’t bring themselves to share one single tear between the two of them for their dead sister.

  My mother’s addiction drew a line between herself and her family. After failing to make it through rehab on multiple occasions, they just gave up on her, and she fell apart all by herself—well, with me, I guess. My mother was thirty-five years old, meaning she had me when she was eighteen, and she was an addict before I was ever born. Addiction can become unbearable to watch, and her family chose to leave her to fend for herself rather than help her any longer. They couldn’t take her resistance and constant relapses. Don’t get me wrong, no one in my mother’s family has very much money, but standing next to my two aunts now, I can’t
help but wonder what it would’ve been like if one of them had birthed me. Would I still be this broken and cold inside? Would I still be so confused about everything, wondering how my life could’ve taken such a drastic turn so quickly? Who knows?

  As the rain falls on us in a weak drizzle, making small puddles in the mud beneath our feet, I stare down at the ground while the preacher rambles on. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. After I called the cops and told them my mother had died, the coroner came and picked up her cold, lifeless body and took her away, leaving me in the house all alone for the very first time. I’m eighteen years old, so I don’t have to worry about being placed in foster care or anything crazy like that, but I am on my own now, and I don’t know if I’m happy or sad about it.

  On one hand, Whitney is gone! There’s no more extra drama in the house. No more dealers coming through for a blowjob in exchange for drugs. No more psychotic outbursts or mind-numbing scratching. There’s no more spoons or needles lying around the house, and I’m no longer living in the basement. The day after the coroner took her away, I moved all of my stuff into her bedroom, including all of the new stuff I’ve purchased since Cash N Check. I don’t have to hide anymore, I don’t have to sneak through the outside door to go straight to the basement just to hide a damn shopping bag from Whitney. I’m free to do whatever I want now. I should be thrilled. Right?

  But my mother is dead. No matter what else happened over the years, Whitney King was still my mother, and even though I hated the very sight of her, I’ve never been on my own before. The house is annoyingly quiet, and I can’t figure out why that bothers me so much, because the house was always quiet when Whitney was locked in her room on one of her heroin-induced stupors. When it’s quiet now, I’m reminded that Whitney isn’t locked in her room. She’s gone. I spent eighteen years with Whitney, and no matter how much I try to ignore it, I miss her. Isn’t that insane? I hated her when she was here, and miss her now that she’s gone. Life is really a bitch, isn’t it?