The bed I wake in isn't mine. I already know where I am by the smell of burnt popcorn — which is fentanyl when smoked — and cigarettes. There is a bong next to me on the nightstand with a bulb shaped bowl piece.
I hear voices from downstairs. It is followed by some fake laughter and a ""thanks, man". The front door shuts. Which one is the drug dealer? Jane? Josh? Both?
I eavesdrop on whatever noise I can hear. But all I can hear is the floor creaking. It's not my place to get in their business like this. I'd better leave.
It's not that I don't like him.
He deserves better than someone like me. He is a functioning meth head with a compassionate heart. I am someone who is always causing trouble wherever I go. I do blame myself for that vicious fight that happened last night. He doesn't need me.
I have my own person I need to be, if I expect to heal. From psychosis, I mean. The fastest recovery is done in your lonesome; no drugs for distractions, no men messing with your heart and head — only healthy prospects.
"Thanks for everything." I say, attempting to devoid my tone of sounding like I'm about to cry.
Jane waves.
Josh maintains his cool.
I feel even more ridiculous now.
"Do you want me to drive you home?"
Please don't make me fall harder for you.
"My brother's on his way." I lie.
"Well," Josh grabs a piece of paper and jots down in pen, his name and number. "You know how to reach me."
As I leave the house, my chest begins to hurt. His eyes said, you have a friend in me, but the warmth in the touch of his hand against mine whispered, and something much, much more.
I walk down the driveway kicking rocks as tears fill my eyes. Onto my new life, I am. And we didn't even get to fuck.
—
Adam is sick of me not working and smoking weed all day. At least I'm not drinking? It's been a month since I've stepped foot in a club. My bong water hasn't been replaced in a week. So much for moving up in life. I stare at the filth kept within the glass walls of the smoking device; the murky, almost turning black water.
That is my essence. As I lay on my side ignoring Adam's monologue about standing back up after falling down, I drown in an emotional tide called life's disappointments.
He lifts the bong I'm staring at. My eyes slowly travel to meet his.
"This thing is filthy. Are you even listening to me?" He is scowling deep.
"Uh, huh." I say.
"Get a job."
The weeks go by typical to my expectations. I tried to apply to every possible career path that didn't involve serving drinks or wings while being degraded by men. There were always fights breaking out in the audience when we performed in bars over who grabbed whose ass. Apparently, you need a four year degree to apply to the FBI. And you cannot have had a psychotic break if you want a spot in the airforce. The only place that accepted me instantly was the firestation, where they offered to let me be their janitor for $10.50 an hour. That was after the interview, and I wasn't even sure I was talking to someone who worked there.
My success was limited. Being a labourer lasted four days before I was laid off so the contractor's niece could take my place. Working at a high-end boutique that my brother used his connections to get me into ended in me getting fired for smoking a cigarette on my break. Finally, there was the bakery. I ate one muffin while high and was literally told to never walk in her store's direction again.
I was made for entertainment. Not this.
"How would you feel about being a DJ for my friend's venue this coming Saturday?" Adam approaches me as I lay on the couch with my feet up on the coffee table. I open my eyes.
"How long?"
"Well, they need someone to come in for 10P.M.-2A.M." He puts his hands in his pockets. "He'll give you $450."
"Did you tell him I'd say yes?"
—
It becomes apparent to me, the full circle, the white light bleeding out of the sun, the burning sting in your eyes when you look straight at it, like putting your hand in a fire, I pause in the moment my heart beats slow and out of pure serendipity for this prophecy, I believe, firmly, there is no greater love than to rest at the hands of whom approaches purposefully. .