by Mandi Beck
Snatching the picture up I exit the studio and head upstairs, grabbing a bottle of too-expensive whiskey from the pantry as well as the bottle of Oxy I had stashed in the medicine cabinet of the guest bathroom. I try not to look around me, pretending like there aren’t any voids in the room. That I’m not missing anything, as I snag my guitar and collapse onto the couch. The picture in my hand feels like lead. I place it on the coffee table in front of me, sitting back I stare at it, willing Willow to walk out of it and into my arms. How the fuck was she gonna leave me? After all that we’ve been through, she fucking left me? Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I try calling her again, but again I get the same detached voice telling me that the number has been disconnected. “Son of a bitch!” I roar as I whip the phone at the exposed brick wall of the living room, watching as it shatters into a million fucking glittery pieces. With fumbling hands, I pop open the top on the pills, spilling a few of them onto the hand-scraped wood table and using the bottom of my whiskey bottle to crush them into a fine powder. From my wallet I pull out a credit card and arrange the crushed up pills into even little lines, not caring that I’m losing so much of the precious powder in the grooves and valleys of the rough wood. Tossing the card aside, I reach into the hidden pocket and wiggle out the little aluminum straw nestled there. Head bent over the table I blow through all four rails of Oxy, one after another, relishing the burn that comes just before the numbing fog.
“How you gonna do me like that, Wills?” I ask the empty room. The empty house. The empty fucking life I’m suddenly living in. Whiskey in one hand, I reach for the picture I’d brought upstairs. My vision is blurred but I don’t need to see to remember what Willow looked like in it. How beautiful her dress had been, her hair, her smile. I don’t need to see to remember us winning our first award and her showing me just how proud of me she had been. I remember all of that. The way she tasted that night in the back of the limo, and every day after. I don’t need to see shit to remember how she likes to be touched. The soft smell of her skin. All of that is ingrained on my soul. I don’t need to see . . . what I can no longer see.
Mind racing, trying to recall every little thing Willow, I take a long pull from the bottle in my hand. Liquid fire hits my stomach; I welcome it. I need it to forget. The part of me needing to let her memory go has me tipping back the whiskey once again, but it doesn’t make her go away quick enough. So I take another swig and then another ’til there’s only a swallow left. Limbs heavy, eyes shaky, I can still see her, hear her. With fingers that feel disconnected from the rest of me, I dig out three pills and toss them in my mouth, crunching them between my molars and shuddering from the bitter taste. Washing it away with the last drops of whiskey.
I don’t know how long I sit there just strumming and humming, falling in and out of sleep, but it seems like days when the doorbell finally chimes. Staggering to my feet I make my way to answer it, knowing it’s going to be my boy with my goodies. As I walk by the clock hanging on the wall, I see that it’s already morning. I’ve been sitting here for hours.
“What took you so long?” I ask, my tongue thick in my dry mouth.
“Sorry, dude, I didn’t know you were back in town, and I was on a run. I know how you feel about me sending anyone else. You’re gonna be really happy to see me when you get a taste of this shit though,” he says excitedly. Probably high on whatever he’s brought already.
I throw the door open wider for him to enter and head back into the living room.
“Your girl’s not here, right?” His eyes dart around the room nervously looking for Willow.
“No, wouldn’t have called you if she was,” I bite out
Ron throws his hands up in surrender. “My bad. I got something to take that edge off. You’ll be pissing fucking rainbows and shit,” he laughs at himself.
“Just lay the shit out, I’ll be right back.” My mood has gone to absolute shit, him asking about Willow bringing my reality crashing down on me. Stalking from the room, I head down to the studio to where the safe is and pull out a stack of cash. I don’t count it, he won’t either. It’s way more than I’ll owe him, but I don’t care. I just want him to give me the drugs and get the fuck out. I give him extra so he doesn’t talk to the press or anyone else. It’s the perfect setup. He makes a few thousand off of me, I score and we’re both happy. With that thought in mind, my steps are lighter as I bound up the stairs and back to where Ron is. I just need that numb and then tomorrow I can work on finding Wills.
“Holy fuck. Did you think I was throwing a party?” I laugh a little in surprise at all he has on my coffee table. Baggies filled with rainbow colored pills, pristine white powder, green buds, a brownish powder along with a few others I can’t make out in the dim light. My palms start to sweat at the sight of it all and I wipe them down the front of my jeans. Anxious to get him out of here.
“I know that’s not how you operate, but I’m going out of town on another run and I wanted to be sure you had all you would need. I brought some new shit too. You usually stick with just the pills and Yao, but you have got to try this Black,” he says nudging the bag with the weed in it toward me. Plopping down next to him, I toss the banded money at him and pick up the baggie.
“You know I don’t smoke this shit.” Holding it up to the light I see that it’s not only green but also brown and white mixed in. Like it’s been rolled in something. “What the fuck is it?”
“Bro, it’s weed laced with opium and meth. Get you so high you’ll be feeling good for days.” His face takes on a dreamy smile, like he’s reminiscing about a fond memory and not trying to sell me on some shit. I toss it back at him.
“I’m not fucking with meth. Just the blow and all the pills. You can take the rest of that with you.” I don’t need any of the other shit.
“All the pills?” Glancing at the dozen or so baggies before looking back up at me with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah, I’m heading back out in a couple weeks. Not sure when I’ll be able to hit you up again.” My leg starts bouncing, the need for him to leave stronger and stronger the more we talk. I don’t want to talk to him about this shit. I want him to drop and go. I’m not a social user. You won’t find me sharing a line with anyone. I hide away from the world to be alone with whatever it is I’m dipping into. Maybe because I know I need to hide it from Willow, from the guys. And I’ve become accustomed, maybe because in a way I feel if nobody sees me doing it, then I’m not actually doing anything wrong, as fucked up as that sounds.
I stand and gather up all the plastic bags, dropping them in a box on the end table, signaling for him to get the rest of his stuff. I start making my way to the door—I’m finished with him and now he needs to get the fuck out. He takes the hint and slides everything back into his backpack and hurries after me.
“OK, man. Just message me when you get back into town. Always a pleasure doing business with you.” With a little salute he jogs to his Hummer, climbs in and drives away. Finally.
With a steadying breath, I walk back to my couch, stopping at a painting hanging on the wall of me and Wills. It was from a shoot we did for the label. Snatching it up, I saunter over to the end table and grab one from there as well before sitting on the couch. I place the pictures next to me—I’m now surrounded by Willow. My fingers brushing over the canvas, I gaze longingly at our tangled limbs, my hands buried in her hair, and let the pain of losing her wash over me. She was mine. I had her.
Reaching for one of the little bags full of pills, I dump four tablets in my hand, not sure what they are and not caring. I toss them back, swallowing past the dryness of my parched throat. I’m ready to not feel. I don’t want to miss her; I don’t want to remember. Just want to be numb. Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag, looking down at the picture under my hand through a haze of smoke. Slowly I trace the lines of her leg, her arm. Without thinking I begin tracing out words to our song across the canvas just like I would on her skin. The rhythmic motion of my fingers calms me. That
and whatever pills I took. When I start to feel too tired to hold my head up, I grab for the bag of coke. Tapping some out on the table, I pick up the straw and blow through a few lines. I’m not ready to sleep. When I sleep, I dream about Wills, and I can’t handle that shit right now. Another smoke clamped between my teeth, I light it and go back to my tracing. After a few passes though I know something’s not right. That I’m not right. Squeezing my eyes shut I trace over and over, cigarette pinched between my fingers, trying to focus on my breathing that’s getting harder and harder. To the empty room I whisper the lyrics to the song I’m leaving behind in ashes on the canvas. Doing my best to ignore the riot I feel going on inside of me.
Fuck me. I’m done. I’m a dead man.
I should be more upset, but without Willow, I honestly don’t think I give a fuck. At least I’m not doing it with my dick in my hand. Plus, all the greats go out at twenty-seven, right? Close the curtains, baby. I can hear the fat lady singing.
There are muffled voices around me that I can’t make out. Each word slices through my head like an axe. One whack after another as I try to chase after them. My eyes dart around behind closed lids, the lights on the other side of them unable to penetrate the darkness. Even as it burns them and sends shooting pain to my already tortured brain. I can smell that I’m in a hospital although I can’t pry my eyes open to see. I can smell the death and sickness, the cloying antiseptic mixed with too sweet flowers. Not sure how the fuck I got here, but it can’t be good. I try to speak but can’t make my mouth move and give up, instead trying to block everything out and disappear back into the void. Just as I start to drift again I hear someone say, “Willow,” but I don’t have the strength to stay and try to listen to what they’re talking about. To find out if she’s here. But then I hear it again and I have to fight the pull, the darkness and quiet, no matter how much it hurts. Prying my eyes open, I blink rapidly, moaning at the pain. I try to raise my hands to cover my eyes, but I can’t. They’re being held by someone, or something. Blinking I try to bring the room into focus, but it’s like being in the middle of a fucking snow globe. Everything is fuzzy and sounds like we’re underwater. Law’s face swims in front of me. I can hear him calling for me as someone I don’t know pulls him away. I try to call out to him, but nothing comes out. And then everything slows, and quiets, and it all fades to black.
The pounding in my head is like a persistent tapping instead of the all out hammering it was before. My throat is scratchy and my mouth has to be full of cotton. The light sneaking in under my cracked lids doesn’t make me cry out in pain like it did before, so I open them slowly, bit by bit. Afraid to move my body since my insides literally ache, I scan the room without turning my head. Covered in flowers it looks like a God damn funeral home. Next to my bed Law sits in a chair, head thrown back, snoring softly, with his feet propped on the end of my bed. Nudging his foot with mine, I watch as he comes to. When his eyes land on mine, I do my best to give a small smile, but I can’t around the tube protruding from my mouth.
“Hey, man, hey. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get the nurse,” Law says excitedly. I try to move my arms to swipe at the annoying tube, but find again that someone is holding them down. Only there’s no one else in the room. Tearing my gaze away from Lawson’s face, I look down to find my wrists strapped to the bed with thick, padded leather. What the ever loving fuck? I yank and struggle, but they don’t budge, and all I do is tire myself out. With wild eyes I search for Law who stepped into the doorway to call for someone. He comes back to the bed with a man dressed in scrubs right behind him.
“You’re awake. Fucking hell. I’m so happy to see your ugly fucking ass awake.” He doesn’t look happy. I try to raise my hands again to pull the tube from my throat so I can speak, and again, there’s no give. The man in the scrubs is talking to me but I can’t hear him over the screaming in my head. He shines a light in first one eye and then the other, and still he speaks and still I can’t make out what he’s saying. I try to convince the demons inside me howling in anger to quiet, but it’s no use, and before I can bend them to my will, I feel myself slipping away again.
Weeks, days, minutes, hours . . . I have no clue how much time has passed, only that I’ve slipped in and out. Awake long enough to see that Willow isn’t here. Long enough for the guys to jump excitedly, the doctors to pierce my skull with their little light in my eyes, and then I’m gone. This time, this time feels different though. My skull isn’t throbbing, just pulsing. My eyes feel full of grit, my mouth and throat too. It’s clear of the tube though, so that’s a plus. Testing to see what else they’ve freed me of I flex my wrists but no luck. I’m still strapped to this fucking bed. Blinking the room into focus, I see Law sitting in the same chair next to me, looking down at his phone, and across the room Judge has himself crammed into a recliner with a small blanket, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Or me . . . the almost dead.
Opening my mouth, I try to speak but a weird croaking sound comes out, startling myself and Law. He looks up at me, grinning. Judge stops snoring and sits up confused.
“You gonna stay with us for more than a minute this time?” Lawson asks as he comes closer, offering me a sip of water. Taking it I nod but stop when my brain starts to rattle a bit. When my mouth is at least wet, I speak.
“Why am I tied to the bed, Law?” I ask, not recognizing my own voice it’s so weak. He looks to Judge who is now making his way over to us.
“A couple reasons, Stone,” Judge says in a sober tone. He takes a deep breath, glances away and then pins me with watchful eyes. “Did you try to kill yourself? Did you take all that shit on purpose because Willow wasn’t home?” he asks carefully. Eyes narrowed, I start to deny it and tell him to go fuck himself but don’t. I stop to think about what I was doing, and why.
“I wasn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . I just wanted to forget.” My voice is low, my eyes already growing heavy. Pressing my head against the pillow, I look at each of them, one after the other. “I took all of them on purpose, but not to off myself.” Admitting that to them is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I know they’ve known every time I was high, but we’ve never spoken about it. They would ask, I would deny, and that was the end. Willow’s the only one that called me on my shit. Their eyes never leave my face, I can see them trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or not.
“That’s one of the reasons you’re strapped down. They weren’t sure what they were dealing with. Weren’t sure if you woke up if you’d be a danger to yourself,” Judge says grimly. I nod in acceptance. Embarrassed.
“And the other?”
They glance at each other, and then back at me, deciding something with a shared look between them. “You’ve had some mild seizures,” Judge informs me.
Again I nod, closing my eyes. “Okay.” What else can I say? Nothing. I don’t have the strength, and I know why I was seizing. I know because I can feel the need to be high even now clawing at me. Making my insides roil and my anxiety climb. The urge to lash out at them, tell them to fuck off, is so strong I squeeze my eyes tighter still. Maybe if I pretend to sleep they’ll go away. Maybe the doctor will give me something to help with the pain. Unlikely. I’m in the hospital because of an overdose, not a motherfucking car accident. But I just need . . . something.
“Willow.” Her name falls from my lips before I can stop myself. Cracking my eyes just enough to see them, I watch as Judge shifts from foot to foot and Law looks at the ground. She’s not here. But why would she be? She wasn’t at home. How would she even know I’m in the hospital? She changed her number. But I didn’t. My eyes pop open and I ignore the pain it causes. I feel like my whole body is tender, rubbed raw. “My phone?” I croak out quietly. Sipping again from the straw Law is offering me.
“Busted into a million fucking pieces, dude,” he tells me, face pinched.
“Judge, I need it.”
“Stone. You’re in the damn hospital because you OD’d on who knows what, nearly burn
t your damn house down, and you’re worried about your damn phone?” Judge asks, exasperation and anger making his tone harsh, grating on my nerves.
“Get me the fucking phone!” I demand as sternly as I can in my weakened state, my breathing becoming labored the more pissed I get.
“Hey, calm down. We’ll get you the phone. No worries, okay?” Law soothes. He knows me. Knows why it’s so important.
“Wha-what do you mean I nearly burnt my house down?” I ask them, trying to fight my way through the fog.
“You must have been smoking. You burned through a picture and it set off the alarm and when the security company couldn’t get a hold of you, they called me since I was next on the list. They sent out the cavalry, thank fuck. We met them here.” He looks at me and I can see the worry in his eyes still. “You scared the ever loving shit out of us, man.”
I don’t get the chance to reply, ask about the house, or even apologize to Law. The door opens and a doctor I think I remember from the last time I was awake comes in.