Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Asher asks through the grin on his face. “Now, if it’s okay with you, we’d like to help you up so that Tracie can change your sheets.” My heart sinks.

  “But it hurts.”

  “I know it does,” he replies. “But it’s not good for you to be lying on cold, wet sheets.” Admitting defeat, I let out a long sigh. “I’m going to put my hands on you, Tegan.” Hearing his words makes my heart flutter in my chest. Why, I’m not really sure.

  “Okay . . .”

  Asher places one hand on my bicep as he slides the other under the crook of my armpit. Tracie does the same but I ignore her, my eyes firmly locked with his. Something about the way his eyes seem so relaxed draw me in. “All right, on three.”

  I take a deep breath, preparing for the pain that I know will hit me once I move. They count down slowly and I appreciate them giving me time to prepare. “Three,” Asher says as they pull simultaneously. I cry out as I move, but once I’m upright the pain stops. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  He laughs before adjusting his arms to support me. “Now we’ve got to get you up off the bed completely. Do you think you can walk to the chair?”

  My eyes break from his and I glance across the room at the overstuffed armchair. It seems so far away and I know that I’ll make a complete ass of myself if I even attempt to get there on my own. I shake my head, knowing it’s time for me to admit defeat, and perhaps even ask for a little bit of help.

  He doesn’t say another word, just slides his arm underneath my legs and pulls me into his chest, cradling me in his arms. I stiffen, unsure of how to react to his gesture. “It’s all right. Relax. I’ve gotcha,” he assures, as though sensing my apprehension. Exhausted, I wrap my arm around his neck, supporting the weight of my body.

  No one has ever picked me up like this before, I think to myself. It feels nice.

  My mind reels and the few steps to the chair seem to take forever, each footfall making my heart grow louder, and I’m thankful for the cloak of semi-darkness as heat rushes to my face. He smiles sympathetically, leaning down to gently set me on the cushioned seat.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. The sound resonates so loudly in my own head that I swear they both hear it.

  What the hell was that?

  Did I just have to swallow my heart?

  Quickly, I shake the thought from my head and I attribute it to just being thirsty. “Thank you.” He kneels down so that he’s in front of me and I look past him, focusing on Tracie as she makes my bed up. I want to be more interested in that than I do with him. But knowing that he’s looking at me makes me uneasy.

  Eventually my eyes find my way back to his. “You’re doing great, Tegan. Knowing your limits and when to ask for help is the first sign that you’re on the road to recovery.” He places his hand on my knee, but this time I don’t flinch or find myself in a fit of rage, because I know deep down he’s just here to help me; he’s making that perfectly clear.

  It might be time for me to stop fighting.

  I LOOKED DOWN at my cell phone as it vibrated against my leg, the shrill ring reminding me of everything I wanted to forget. Day after day I was reminded of the pain I caused to everyone I loved. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, they continued to love me despite my constant fuck ups. The phone quieted and I took a deep breath, hoping that they’d give up.

  My heart raced as I picked at the skin around my fingernails but pulled it too far back. I winced. The blood pooled around my nail bed and because I didn’t have a tissue to hand I put my finger to my mouth and sucked, but of course the taste of the blood reminded me of veins. My body shook with need.

  The phone started ringing again. I covered my ears like a child and gently rocked myself until it stopped again. Everyday was exactly the same. Like a sick joke, my world kept spinning on repeat and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like the movie Groundhog Day. Life was forcing me to repeat each minute of every hour of every day, hoping that I might make a different choice. Just once. Just one different move.

  Yet, I never did. Instead I woke up, I jonesed, I picked. I drove myself insane until I found a way to score some smack. I got high. Did more dumb shit. I disappointed everyone. It was thoroughly mundane but somehow I began to crave the simplicity of it all. The predictability. It bored me but oddly enough, knowing I could count on my days calmed me. Unlike most people, I knew exactly how each of my days would pan out—just the same as the day before. It was sick, but I had grown to depend on my days because they all brought me the same thing.

  Numbness.

  Dropping my hands from my ears, I looked across the room.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” I spat. Gretchen glared at me through her black-rimmed eyes. Fuckin’ bitch. Gretchen was a ten-dollar prostitute who lived on the streets near my house, called that because there wasn’t anything that she wouldn’t do for ten dollars. That fact made her a frontrunner for the title of my "bestie."

  Like I’m one to judge.

  “If I’m taking too long feel free to go find your own shit,” she returned, not looking up from what she was doing.

  The only difference between Gretchen and I was how the smack got in our hands. Gretchen used herself to get money to pay for it. I cut out the middle man just used myself to pay.

  With shaking hands I watched on, helpless, as Gretchen continued to cook the powder. Watching only increased my need and a bead of sweat formed on my upper lip, a slow crackle coming from the spoon as it began to boil, my heart thundering against my chest when she placed one syringe into the fluid and drew it back, allowing the fluid into the chamber. With shaking hands, she quickly did the same with a second needle. This was one of those moments I was thankful for pharmacies providing needles to the general public. If they didn’t, I would surely have caught something by now.

  Once they were both full, she placed the plastic cover on one and tossed it in my general direction. I scrambled to grab it and breathed a sigh of relief once it was safely clasped in my hand.

  “Thanks, bitch.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Next time you go suck some old balls to get us some, okay?”

  I nodded but we both knew I wouldn’t. Not that it mattered. Gretchen would forget that she took care of this hit and she’d be out turning tricks to score us some again the next time.

  She grabbed an old telephone cord and wrapped it tightly around her arm, searching for a vein at the same time as I removed my belt and placed it around my arm, securing it tightly against my skin. I could feel my heartbeat down through my hand and my stomach fluttered with excitement. Escape wasn’t far off.

  I gently moved my finger along the length of my arm, looking for a prominent vein. Luckily for me my arms weren’t total junk, and it didn’t take me long to find one. In one fell swoop, I slid the cold needle into my arm and blood swirled, mixing with the heroin briefly before I pushed the plunger. I gasped before carefully loosening the belt, allowing the rush to travel up my arm.

  With the needle and belt still in place, I glanced in Gretchen’s direction, watching as she struggled to find a usable vein. Hers were shit. I hoped I didn’t live long enough to blow all my veins like Gretchen. Watching her struggle to find one was pathetic and I never wanted to be that desperate. I just wanted it to stop. Everything. All of it.

  And then it did.

  The world ceased moving.

  I fell back onto the couch. Covered in a heroin fog, I struggled to remove the belt from my arm. It fell into my lap just before I pulled the needle from my arm. It felt foreign as it left my skin; like I was already missing it.

  Sick, I know.

  The warmth continued to spread up the length of my arm before pooling in my chest, setting to work right where I needed it most—my shattered heart. Leaning my head back I closed my eyes, letting the nothingness surround me, letting the darkness reach out and envelope me in its arms
, squeezing me tight, as though everything was going to be all right.

  “Motherfucker!”

  I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. My eyes snapped open and fell on Gretchen, who was still struggling to get her hit. Rolling my eyes at her misfortune, I decided to give her my two cents. “Go take a hot bath.”

  She glared at me. “You know that shit don’t work.”

  Annoyed that she was killing my buzz, I groaned. “Then just shoot your femoral.”

  “No fucking way. Last time I did that, I think I almost bled to death.”

  She was right. Just a few short weeks ago I’d watched on as she experimented with the one of the riskiest veins known to IV drug users: the femoral. She had exhausted every other option. Arms, legs, feet, stomach—she’d even taken a hot bath in hopes of drawing out a vein. But three and half hours later her efforts remained unrewarded. Pushed to the brink of insanity and facing imminent withdrawal, she’d pulled down her pants and started feeling around.

  Before I could register what she was doing, the needle was halfway into the skin near her groin, and despite the agonizing pain, she pushed the plunger anyway. Upon removing the needle, the blood poured out of the small hole left behind and it took the two of us to get the bleeding to stop. After talking to some friends we decided that she had more than likely missed and hit the femoral artery instead. But that didn’t matter to Gretchen. She vowed never to sink that low again.

  She continued to stick herself, muttering curse words in between every futile attempt. It was beyond pathetic. I just wanted some fuckin’ peace and quiet. “The only reason you almost bled out was because you’re stupid and you hit the artery instead.”

  “Fuck you, Tegan,” she said with disdain, her eyes never leaving her needle and skin. Annoyed as fuck, I shook my head.

  “Let me shoot it for you.”

  She stopped in place and slowly looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t want to do it. Let me shoot you in the femoral.”

  Her eyebrow popped up. I stood up and moved toward her, my feet scuffing across the rug, before plopping down next to her on the couch. “I went to nursing school for Christ's sake.” I put my hand out in front of her, waiting for her to make the smart decision and hand me the goddamn needle. She hesitated for a brief moment before begrudgingly placing the needle in my hand.

  “You better not miss, Tegan.”

  “I never miss.”

  She leaned back against the couch and shimmied her hips out of her pants. Finding the vein was easy; she was so skinny that the blue line popped against her white skin, but I ran my finger over it twice just to be sure. I didn’t feel the pumping of an artery and slid the needle into her skin. She winced. I pushed. Leaving the needle in place, I fell back onto the couch next to her, satisfied that incessant chatter was about to stop. I looked over at Gretchen, a smug smile on my face, but her eyes were already closed, the femoral high already taking over. I’d heard it was a good one.

  She moaned as it continued to wash over her. Even though I had already gotten mine the old fashioned way, I was slightly jealous that she was experiencing the kind of euphoria that we were constantly seeking.

  “Finally . . .” she mumbled as her eyelids fluttered.

  Even though we fought all the time, Gretchen was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was my partner in crime through this crazy life; the only person I felt I could count on. Closing my eyes, I slid my hand over to hers and gently patted her as we lay there in the quiet room, letting the darkness overtake us.

  MY HEAD TOSSED from one side to the other. The numbness was leaving my body, the heartache slowly starting to make its presence known, the heaviness in my chest returning with vengeance. My eyes popped open. Above me I could see the leak-stained ceiling of Gretchen’s place. Disgusted, I sat forward on the couch, placing my head in my hands. Waking from a high was never a good thing. I groaned as my brain started to clear the fog surrounding my head.

  I turned my head to the right, looking at Gretchen for the first time. Her eyes were still closed, but something about her just didn’t look right. She was pale . . . well, paler than usual. The pinkness from her lips gone.

  I leaned closer, hovering above her chest, hoping to catch a glimpse of her shallow breathing, but it did not rise or fall as I would have expected. I wanted to scream, but my lungs wouldn’t expand. I likened how I felt to when you’re waiting on the subway, and a train rushes past, taking all the air with it. My ears started ringing, all the blood in my body rushed to my head. My hands crept up my face, finding my mouth. I pushed them against my lips, trying to stop the trembling, but the effort was wasted. The room was as quiet as it was earlier, but whereas earlier the silence had been welcome, now it felt suffocating.

  Even though I already knew, I couldn’t help myself. With my free hand I reached out and pushed her leg, the temperature of her icy skin shocking me and I quickly withdrew my hand. A single tear rolled down my cheek and fell onto my jeans, leaving behind a watermark. Despite the fear and sadness, the panic set in.

  I have to get out of here.

  I wiped my face and hopped to my feet, looking down at the lifeless body. Gretchen was gone. My only friend; my confidant; my partner in crime. And the worst part?

  I’d killed her.

  I’d been the one to convince her to shoot her femoral. Yes, she’d been the one to pull her pants down, giving me permission, but my fingers slid the needle under her skin, my fingers pushed the plunger, releasing the heroin into her blood, feeding the monster inside her. Had I missed something? Done something wrong? I knew deep down it didn’t matter how I tried to justify it to myself. I was responsible. And if anyone found out, my life would be over.

  I scanned the room, trying to figure out my next move. My prints were all over the place but, most importantly, they were all over the needle still lying in the crook of her leg. I leaned forward carefully and, taking it between my thumb and pointer finger, gently eased it out, slipped the safety cap over the sharp end and shoved it into my back pocket.

  I dialed 911 and walked out the door and into the scuzzy hallway of her building before an operator picked up.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  I took a deep breath in through my nose before speaking. “I need to report an overdose.”

  TODAY IS THE FIRST day that my stomach hasn’t been sloshing around and I haven’t been expelling something from any of my orifices. I’m not sweating profusely either. The only residual symptom is the tremor in my hands, but I don’t think that has to do with the detox. I think it’s because despite being more than a week in, I still crave a hit. I want nothing more than to cook up some smack and jab myself with a needle. It’s not even necessarily about getting high. Part of it is craving the ritual of it. Heroin addicts aren’t just addicted to the drug—they’re addicted to the process. And that desire fills me more than my need to breathe. Hence the shaking hands.

  I watch on helplessly as they quake in my lap. I press them together, trying to force them to stop, but my attempts don’t work. They continue to move in my lap.

  Fucking stupid hands.

  “Tegan?”

  Startled from my thoughts, I look up. I was so busy studying my hands that I forgot I’m in a session. Asher sits across from me, relaxed as always, looking at me patiently, waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry,” I croak out. My throat is so dry. I reach out for my glass of water and take a long, slow sip. Setting the glass down on the table takes an act of congress. The water sloshes up against the sides of the glass as my hand jostles it about. It hits the table with a thud. “I just can’t seem to stop shaking.” I glance up at him, uncomfortable with the silence and he smiles slightly, still looking at me as though he’s expecting a response. Annoyed, I sigh. I don’t want to talk. I know I have to, but it’s obvious to me that he’s being a little obtuse. “I didn’t hear what you said,” I say sharply.

  I expect for him to be annoyed that he ha
s to repeat his question; that he’ll let out an exasperated sigh and ask it again, because that’s his duty not because he’s genuinely interested, faking interest as his eyes wander around the room. But none of that happens.

  He smiles, taking off his black-rimmed glasses and closing his notebook. He leans forward slightly. “How does it feel to be five days sober?” Surprisingly enough, his interest appears genuine. There’s nothing condescending in his mannerisms. Just care and concern. I consider lying and telling him it feels peachy, but knowing that he’s sincere makes me want to tell him the truth. So, without a second thought, I put it out there for him.

  “To be honest, it feels pretty shitty.”

  “I can definitely sympathize with that.”

  My eyes pop up and study him. He lets out a chuckle, still smiling. What the fuck? Annoyed that he’s mocking me, I cross my arms over my chest. “What a bunch of bullshit,” I mutter.

  Sitting back in his chair, he raises his hand as if under oath. “Cocaine: my drug of choice.”

  “More bullshit.”

  He places his hand in his lap and shrugs. “Scouts honor. It made me feel invincible. I was able to stay up all night and party. Night after night, I trolled my way through every club in Miami, looking for something. To this day I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but I do know I hated myself back then. I figured being surrounded by hundreds of strangers had to be better than being alone.”

  Listening to his story piques my interest. Before thinking I blurt out the only question I can think of. “How long?”

  His eyebrows rise, as though he’s surprised by my interest. “How long did it last, or how long have I been sober?”

  “Both.”

  “I was addicted to cocaine from the age of eighteen until I was twenty-two. I’ve been sober for six years.”