"Having Heart" 5/13/11

"Becca. Becca! BECCA, FUCKING DAMNIT!" Johnny pounded the bathroom door with his fists as he heard the flush of a toilet, with his entire stash of heroin swirling amidst the faint traces of piss and scum. He slid down the wall, a hand on his head as he heard the click of the lock and turn of the knob as he saw her light brown calves emerge. He was furious, though he knew deep inside him it was the right thing to do. It created a chasm between the physical cravings, the ache of his skin for another piercing pinpoint into his flesh (oh, he was getting goosebumps at the mere thought, a chill up his spine), versus the persistent superego's monologue, for it was a conversation he could no longer take part in. He couldn't shake the drugs. He needed them to function: to induce a daze of repose that eased the tumour of anxiety in his stomach, the tempest brewing in his mind, the rigor mortis threatening his every move. He needed them, and yet, there they traveled somewhere under the city in the rampant sewers, a grave reminiscent of their pathetic nature.

Like handling a timebomb, she carefully sat beside him on her legs while he averted his eyes to the dust collecting in the archaic rug that came with the run-down apartment. He couldn't face her now, now that he had chosen the drugs over her. She had given him the choice, and he had failed her. What made him deserving of another chance with her? Why was she allowing him another glance in her rich brown eyes? No- he could not take it.

"Johnny…" Becca breathed, and just those two syllables sent his world spinning, fortified the poles of the schism his mind had become. A solid, sincere hand to the back of his arm made him jump, then unwind just a fraction. It pained him to hear the strain in her near-whisper.

"I did what I had to. What you couldn't do. What you needed. Don't you see what they did to you?"

At that, Johnny snapped. He slammed his hands onto the uncarpeted wood and met her eyes. "They were helping me!" He exclaimed through gritted teeth, a vein in his neck jutting out. "They… They…"

"They took the pain away, not the problem. The only thing the drugs could've done was wear your emotions down until all you care about's your next fix, and before you know it," she sped up, consumed in her words, "you'll be six fucking feet under the ground with tar clogging your bloodstream. You'd become the fucking drug-"

"And what if I don't care?" Johnny shouted back. "I could die any second, and I wouldn't give a fuck. At least with the drugs, I'd die in peace."

She shook her head fervently and raised her voice, desperate for him to understand. "You'd be dying because the drugs killed you, not your problems. They've polished you off bit by bit until every standard you set for yourself and this world is just a fucking grain of sand." She paused, furrowing her eyebrows with pleading. "Johnny, I still love you like no other, but if you really loved me too, you would trust me and let me help you get back on your feet." Swallowing heavily, her eyes swam in quivering water to match her voice. "Because right now? You're in fucking ruins."

Intently, he stared at the crevice separating the floor and wall opposite him, tracing the dirty remnants of cobwebs with his eyes. He loved her more than life itself, but he couldn't bring himself to face that kind of pain; he knew he wouldn't be able to go on. His heart would stop, his pupils would dilate in fear, and his gaze would grow blank. Johnny would be less than hollow; he would truly be the living dead.

He could see the tears glistening from the dim kitchen light casting its glow into the hall. Her tiny, shaking breaths clutched at his decrepit, blackened heart, not like the mocha of her skin, but the obsidian ashes of burnt photographs, and it took a moment to dissociate from the bite of past (past?) love.

Becca was through. Before she realized what she was doing, she took his head in her left hand roughly, seizing chunks of his hair between her fingers as tightly as she could, and extended her leg to his other side, so his legs were in the middle of hers and Becca, on her knees, was face-to-face with Johnny, who didn't wince or utter any noise when she clenched his hair, but only shut his eyes, reveling in the pain that he deserved, the pain that made his heart race, the pain that proved he was alive.

"Don't you feel anything for me? Or have the drugs taken away that too?" His heart stung for a second with the impact of her words, but just like a syringe's kiss, the pain was engulfed by grey, billowing numb. She whispered so softly, such clear syllables ornamenting her bittersweet language, yet contrasted by the stark silence which suffocated their ears. "Can you feel anything anymore?" Her warm hand touched his chest, right over his heart, while his arms fell to his sides, surrendering himself to her.

It was then for one brief moment that Johnny opened his eyes, looking directly into Becca's, before their lips so naturally, so magnetically met and moved in an innate rhythm, entirely in sync. She saw the raw torment, disencumbered from layers of defense mechanisms like Dante's Inferno, an escalating system of personal hell, so deep even Johnny could not see what was truly underneath it all: the bitter sarcasm, the trembling rage, the bottomless numb. He in turn saw the pain he had caused her, the sacrifices she had made, and the risks she had taken to ensure he, if no one else, would be safe.

And when their lips met, Johnny's heart swelled with such intensity, he could no longer deny it the freedom to feel. It felt as though his rib cage was rattling, like the confining cell of a starving animal. Once he felt Becca's lips on his and tasted her throughout his mouth, there was no ceasing the stronger of the two cravings, this overwhelming flood, causing a change in tide, a shifting of the poles. The only craving he needed to satisfy was for Becca, and at this realization, he pulled away from their kiss and broke down. Rivers flowed freely from his eyes as he choked on sobs, and Becca hugged his lanky, delicate body as if she were holding on to Johnny's very soul, the one he had reclaimed for his own. And Johnny embraced her back, sharing his soul with his one and only addiction.