anesthetic, so it doesn’t really hurt, but I know it will soon enough. I just want to get the hell out of there.
But when I push through the doors to the reception area, Dougie’s there waiting for me. He’s limping slightly, same side as me. “Well, that sucked.”
I ignore him. I can’t deal with him right now.
He doesn’t take the hint. He wraps his hand around my upper arm and squeezes, not so tight that it hurts, but firm enough to send a message I can’t miss. “What do you say we go somewhere, Audie? Maybe take off our pants and take care of each other’s wounds the old-fashioned way.” He licks the corner of his lips and tosses back his pathetic faux dreads in a way I think is supposed to be sexy.
“Get off me, Skeevy McFuckerson.” I shove him away and practically run out of the room, not even caring when I look down and see a small bloom of blood soaking its way through my pants.
I’m not surprised. I’ve never liked Dougie—he set off my creepdar from the first time I met him. But he’s the least of my worries, and I can’t get distracted. My biggest enemy right now is time—a fact I confirm by checking the contents of the envelope in my hand. The final study follow-up isn’t for five weeks. Which means no cash until after Dylan’s birthday, so it might as well be forever. Just thinking about it makes me almost vibrate with anger. They already have my flesh, but I’m not getting a dime for five fucking weeks. Can they really do that—change the terms like that?
I pull out my cell phone—it’s a crappy, prepaid, junkie’s phone—and call Dylan. I don’t care that it’s not time yet. I need to hear his voice. I need to hear that we’re worth this.
CHAPTER 19
The first time I got high, it was the moon, full and round.
It was the warmth of the sun.
It was the tide, pulling and lulling in my veins.
It’s no exaggeration to say that feeling, that pale, electric, shimmering sensation inside of me, was the light at the end of a tunnel. It was my first breath. It was my introduction to the world. It gave me my voice, that bliss-ed, bless-ed, drug-fueled moment—my first cry a chemical
hallelujah,
a filled-to-the-brim
amen.
Screw you.
Screw all of you who try to tell me it’s not possible for me to remember it.
I remember it. I do.
I came out of the womb high as a kite. Every day since has been stained by the absence of that particular feeling, that singular, scene-setting cocktail of opioids and bulking agents (likely suspects, as per police reports thoughtfully included in my hospital discharge file: brick dust, crushed aspirin, sugar. Also, traces of rat feces).
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Audie. Haaaaaah-peeeee birthday to me.
But nothing will ever touch that feeling again. No drug in the world can give me
life
the way it did that first time, the day I was born, a yowling, yellow, smoosh-faced, too-early, too-small little tweaker baby, crying and shaking in my incubator with nurses tsk-tsking all around.
I remember it all, because every day since then has been an act of withdrawal.
The upside of being born an addict: nothing tempts me. That is to say, nothing satisfies. A twist in my junkie genetics has left me with all the cravings, the bone-deep needs, but none of the fix. I’ve already experienced the perfect high, and nothing else will ever come close. Not that I haven’t tried—just that I’ve tried and failed. I have apathetic veins. Constipated opiate receptors. It’s a shitty way to break a shitty cycle: I am stubbornly and hopelessly unaddicted.
It would be fair to say that my chemical indifference is rare among my fellow professional guinea pigs, however, and tonight a rousing game of Musical Pill Bottles is going on in the living room.
Par-tay!
A skinny blonde squints at the writing on the small container that ends up in her hands when the music stops. “What the fuck is this stuff going to do to me? I don’t
But when I push through the doors to the reception area, Dougie’s there waiting for me. He’s limping slightly, same side as me. “Well, that sucked.”
I ignore him. I can’t deal with him right now.
He doesn’t take the hint. He wraps his hand around my upper arm and squeezes, not so tight that it hurts, but firm enough to send a message I can’t miss. “What do you say we go somewhere, Audie? Maybe take off our pants and take care of each other’s wounds the old-fashioned way.” He licks the corner of his lips and tosses back his pathetic faux dreads in a way I think is supposed to be sexy.
“Get off me, Skeevy McFuckerson.” I shove him away and practically run out of the room, not even caring when I look down and see a small bloom of blood soaking its way through my pants.
I’m not surprised. I’ve never liked Dougie—he set off my creepdar from the first time I met him. But he’s the least of my worries, and I can’t get distracted. My biggest enemy right now is time—a fact I confirm by checking the contents of the envelope in my hand. The final study follow-up isn’t for five weeks. Which means no cash until after Dylan’s birthday, so it might as well be forever. Just thinking about it makes me almost vibrate with anger. They already have my flesh, but I’m not getting a dime for five fucking weeks. Can they really do that—change the terms like that?
I pull out my cell phone—it’s a crappy, prepaid, junkie’s phone—and call Dylan. I don’t care that it’s not time yet. I need to hear his voice. I need to hear that we’re worth this.
CHAPTER 19
The first time I got high, it was the moon, full and round.
It was the warmth of the sun.
It was the tide, pulling and lulling in my veins.
It’s no exaggeration to say that feeling, that pale, electric, shimmering sensation inside of me, was the light at the end of a tunnel. It was my first breath. It was my introduction to the world. It gave me my voice, that bliss-ed, bless-ed, drug-fueled moment—my first cry a chemical
hallelujah,
a filled-to-the-brim
amen.
Screw you.
Screw all of you who try to tell me it’s not possible for me to remember it.
I remember it. I do.
I came out of the womb high as a kite. Every day since has been stained by the absence of that particular feeling, that singular, scene-setting cocktail of opioids and bulking agents (likely suspects, as per police reports thoughtfully included in my hospital discharge file: brick dust, crushed aspirin, sugar. Also, traces of rat feces).
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Audie. Haaaaaah-peeeee birthday to me.
But nothing will ever touch that feeling again. No drug in the world can give me
life
the way it did that first time, the day I was born, a yowling, yellow, smoosh-faced, too-early, too-small little tweaker baby, crying and shaking in my incubator with nurses tsk-tsking all around.
I remember it all, because every day since then has been an act of withdrawal.
The upside of being born an addict: nothing tempts me. That is to say, nothing satisfies. A twist in my junkie genetics has left me with all the cravings, the bone-deep needs, but none of the fix. I’ve already experienced the perfect high, and nothing else will ever come close. Not that I haven’t tried—just that I’ve tried and failed. I have apathetic veins. Constipated opiate receptors. It’s a shitty way to break a shitty cycle: I am stubbornly and hopelessly unaddicted.
It would be fair to say that my chemical indifference is rare among my fellow professional guinea pigs, however, and tonight a rousing game of Musical Pill Bottles is going on in the living room.
Par-tay!
A skinny blonde squints at the writing on the small container that ends up in her hands when the music stops. “What the fuck is this stuff going to do to me? I don’t
Similar Books
