Retrospect
Amy
Have you ever loved someone?
Let me finish.
Have you ever loved someone so much that you didn't think they would ever turn on you? No matter what? I have. Blind love, I think they call it.
Sonic was "retired", living off endorsements. His face was on serial boxes and sneakers. He has his own food chain. Action figure. Plush doll. Video games. Action films he doesn't even star in or watch. Money just gets dumped on top of him. So, why work? That's what he wants you to think, because he's a disgusting prick. A soulless asshole. I've never hated a man I love so much. Do you have any idea what this is like?
Heroin. Addiction. Is this a reason to lock a person up? I was never a mean person. Never tried to hurt anyone. Never had to steal. Never whored myself out. Never had to break any moral standards to get drugs. But I'm a bad person? They tell me I'm sick, and they lock me up so I can get 'better'?
Sometimes I cry. It feels like for no reason. Just for being alive and in here. Makes me kind of wish I hadn't taken the slow route. It's not like any of this matters.
What Sonic doesn't understand is that I loved him. I would have done anything for him, including quitting heroin. I've done it before, and staying on the shit wouldn't be worth losing someone you care so deeply for, you know? But he never asked. He never wanted me off the junk. He never said shit. It was like he didn't care. He would watch me do it. Study.
Then he would fuck me. Without asking, he would just fuck me. Climbing on top of me, tearing open my blouse. Hiking up my skirt. He would fuck me, and I couldn't say or do anything about it. Just take it. It isn't like I cared. Being in love with the piece of shit, and all.
Suddenly he's booking me. He fucked me in both senses of the word. From both ends, so to speak. Told me they were going light on me, because he loved me. Told me he wanted me to get better. Told me he wanted me to clean up.
Me.
Who's really filthy here? Who really needs to "clean up" around here, I wonder?
He just threw me into a cell, physically dependant on a substance and strictly deprived of it. Do you know what that's like? For the first couple of days, they don't even talk to you. They just leave you in a room all by yourself. Suffering off withdrawal symptoms. Extreme nausea. Headaches pounding. Constant vomiting. Diarrhea. Insomnia. You can't even fucking sleep through the madness. Hours of waking constant suffering. A nightmare that you want to end, but it won't. Not for days.
And they don't even help you out. They don't give you any medicine. Bring you any water when you need it, unless it's lunch time. They don't do shit. You're swimming in your own sweat, soaked in a smelly blanket. Begging for a new one.
No response.
This is rehabilitation?
Isolation?
Suffering?
Constantly screaming for help. Screaming nonsense. Just sounds. Just wishing it would go away. Wishing I would die. Something. Just please end this torture.
All the while, I'm cursing Sonic's name. Wishing he was dead. Wishing there was some way I could get back at him. Wishing there was some way to make him suffer as I've suffered. But I can't.
It doesn't seem possible. Looks like I have to suck it up. Looks like he wins.
Oh well.
Words can't describe how I feel right now. Empty doesn't quite measure up. I'm in the negatives right now. Never felt like this before. It isn't pleasant.
There is an atmosphere in this room. Despair hangs around us like a fog. Do they feel the same way? Maybe it's just me.
My skin isn't comfortable. Living in a constant state of discontent. This is the first time I've been around other people, and it doesn't feel right. Then again, it didn't feel right when I was alone, either.
I just want to feel normal again. Just want to feel okay.
Have you ever been in a state of physical or mental discomfort? The feeling of helplessness s that washes over you when you take a bad hit of salvia, or too many mushrooms, and you realize that nothing can be done to make you feel okay again. You just have to ride it out.
But the thing with mushrooms and salvia is the fact that you can. You don't feel like you can, but you do within an hour or so. I've been trying to ride this feeling out for a week. When I said constant, that's just what was meant. Constant.
"Hello and welcome."
Murmurs from all around me. About five or so different greetings. I just shift uncomfortably in my chair, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Trying my damnedest not to think of a needlepoint slowly entering the vein in my arm. Pulling back the plunger slightly, drawing just a tiny bit of blood, mixing it with the substance.
Trying my very hardest not to thing about pushing down that plunger. Attempting my very best not to thing about that rush that you can't get any other way. That amazing rush.
"We have some newcomers here, today. Vernon, you know the routine. Why don't you start us off today?"
A gray fox takes the spotlight, so to speak. We're all sitting in a circle. He doesn't even stand up, but all the attention is turned to him. He clears his throat and scratches his ear. Someone coughs. The gray fox sits up strait, and starts to speak.
"Hello, my name is Vernon"
The voice is extremely monotone. Like he's reading off a cue card.
"Hi Vernon"
Those voices are flat, too. Kind of sounds like… defeat.
"I'm a recovering alcoholic. After losing my wife and kids over drinking, I got so bad it landed me in the hospital a couple of times. Doctors said they didn't think I was going to make it. Said they were sure I was going to die. A miracle, they called it. Me just being alive, a miracle. A miracle I didn't drink myself to death. They told me I should never drink again. Did that stop me? No. On my way home for a bar one night, I was out of cash. No taxi. No buses were running. Didn't want to walk home, because I didn't want to get arrested. You know how the police are around here. Any chance to put you away for something small, they take. Public intoxication charges are brutal, so I decided to drive home. Thought I was okay, you know? It wasn't far, but I…. I pulled out without my lights on and I hit someone."
He's breaking. It's only a matter of time for each of his. You can hear it in his voice. It's almost like he's about to cry, or something.
"A little girl" he said "had run away from home that night. I ran over a nine year old little girl outside of a bar at three in the morning. She's currently paralyzed from the neck down. I have to live with that, now. Sober. Been sober for a couple of months now. It's been a long time."
"Thank you, Vernon. Everyone, let's give Vernon a hand, for being so brave for us today."
And we're clapping for him. People telling him how brave he is, and telling him how good he's doing. Telling him it will be okay, when it clearly won't. Words of comfort that add up to just that; words.
"Newcomer, why don't you share a little bit about yourself now?"
He's looking at me. The thing is, I have to talk. If I don't talk, than it takes me much longer to get out of here. Much longer. These doctors, or whatever, have a say at when I go. There's no set date, it's just their evaluation. When we're 'cured' we get to leave.
So, I shift in my chair some more, and try to gain composure.
"My name is Amy Rose, and I'm in here for heroin."
"Hi Amy."
"Uh.. hi."
"Why don't you tell us a little more?"
"Okay, I guess. Uh. I'm seventeen years old. Turn eighteen soon. I've been doing heroin for years now, since I was thirteen. My dad used to have me prepare his points. Started doing that at about five or six. It wasn't like it was rocket science. Sometimes I'd even help him shoot it. After pulling the needle out of his arm, I would wonder where it was he went. His body was right there, but he seemed so far away. As if on some sort of vacation from life. A break, maybe. I always wanted to go with him on break. On vacation. It got lonely when he left me. That needle took him so far away that he wasn't the same anymore. I wanted to go, too. It wasn't fair that I be left behind to clean everything up all the time. So, I brought it up. Told him I wanted to go with him. He didn't understand. I pointed to the needle. Said I don't like it when he leaves me. Told him I didn't want him to leave me again. He smiled at me, and fixed my first point. Thirteen years old, and my dad takes me on vacation. Only difference for him, was he didn't come back."
My voice is breaking. It's there, but I can't do anything about it. I have to stop.
"I can't do this right now" I say.
Covering my eyes. Fighting back the tears.
"That's okay, Amy. You don't have to. Let's all give Amy a hand"
And everyone is clapping for me and telling me I'm brave. Telling me it's going to be okay. Shoving comfort up my nose. Trying to make me feel better, when I can't.
Physically and mentally unable.
The cat next to me, he lights a cigarette.
"We can smoke in here?"
"Yeah."
"Can I have one of those?"
"Get your own"
And that's when I can't take it anymore. As hard as I try not to, I just start bawling.
Bawling my eyes out. Sobbing loudly and uncontrollably.
I've never felt this hopeless before. Never hated myself and my life so much. Never once would have rather been dead before now. Now I just kind of wish I could join my daddy.
On permanent vacation.
Everyone's still focused on me.
The phone is ringing. Hoping, praying even that the only person I know to call answers.
"Hello?"
"Hey Rouge"
My only friend. The only person I have any ties to whatsoever; at least on an emotional level.
"You know these calls are expensive right?"
Light a cigarette. Try to swallow the lump in my throat.
"Yeah. I'm sorry, I really hate to put you through this."
A sigh.
"It's okay, hon. What do you need?"
"Could you come visit me tomorrow? For lunch?"
"I don't know, Amy. It's a long way out there. I'll see what I can do."
"I understand."
"Do you want me to bring you anything specific?"
"I don't know. A book, maybe."
"Which one?"
"I don't know. I don't care. Anything to take me away."
She's holding a small stack of books under her arm. Walking my direction. She sits at the table, across from me. Slides the books my way.
"These are all I could get, but I imagine it will hold you over until I can get more."
"Thanks. This is too much, really."
"It's fine. Did you need me to come down for any particular reason? Or was it just books?"
"I'm lonely, Rouge. Aren't we friends?"
"Of course."
"I don't know. I feel empty since getting here."
"How do you mean?"
"I need to get out of here, Rouge. Every day in here is torment."
"You'll get better soon enough, Amy"
"Don't feed me that shit. I didn't bring you down here to talk like the doctors around here. I get enough of that."
"Look, if you want me to leave-"
"No!"
Grab her blouse as she goes to stand up. She just stares at me.
"Please don't leave me here. Just stay for a little while. Please."
She sits back down.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay" she says. She tells me everything is going to be fine.
Goes right back to feeding me false solace.
Oh well. At least I'm not alone anymore.
For now.
"Hi. My name is Amy, and I'm a recovering heroin addict."
"Hi Amy"
"I've been sober for about a month now."
Applause. More forced comfort.
"Do you have anything else you would like to share with us?"
Hmm…
Sure. Why not?
"Last night I had a dream that I was in a swimming pool. You know, swimming around. The only thing is that the pool wasn't filled with water. And it wasn't empty. It was filled with needles. Filled needles and used needles. Heroin needles. Not sure why I was swimming in the pool filled with syringes in the first place, but there I was. Every stroke, every movement. Intensified. A mixture of pain and pleasure so unreal that it couldn't be real. My earliest memory was landing. Landing face first in the needles, I shielded my face. Hundreds of points ripping through my skin at awkward angles. Skin tearing in agony, but the agony's venom is numbing. Suddenly I'm higher than I've ever been before, swimming in a pool of syringes that I can't even feel. The pool starts to grow in size rapidly, the syringes spilling out to fill the new barriers. Syringes start to rain down into the pool to fill it, but the pool just keeps getting bigger. It never starts to grow. Syringes wash over me, burying me under a pile too quickly to avoid. Head under, it gets harder to breathe. The euphoric sensation replaced with complete fear and helplessness. Pain. Acceptance never washed over me, even as my death did. After I died, no one cared. No one missed me. I just kind of…. disappeared. Then I woke up."
They just stare at me. No applause. No comfort. No remarks.
They just stare.
Big
Charmy Bee. Now, there's an interesting character. Must admit, I'm somewhat attached to the little prick. He's almost like a son to me. Sort of. An adopted one, I should say. Couldn't tell you how old he was when we first met.
His theft caught my eye. Literally. Saw the little fucker break into a car and get the radio out in less than a minute. Took him about roughly thirty seconds. No bullshit. No fooling around. Just got in, got the fuck out and bounced.
This was back when I was dealing petty amounts of cocaine, and a good deal of pot. Pot's small time. Cocaine sells itself. Hard to find and on high demand. Pot's everywhere. People can easily grow it by themselves, and at mass quantity. You happen to be looking at the only retailer for cocaine in Station Square.
Charmy. Right. Met him a few nights after I saw him steal the radio. I told him he did a good job, and he was a little more than confused. Frightened, even. After calming him down, I offered him some cocaine. The idea is to get them hooked. They try it. They like it. They come back.
Charmy liked it. A lot. Got so bad, he was running out of easy theft targets. Pick me ups. He had to resort to other measures to attain the money for the substance. Word on the street was that he charged eighty for a blowjob. That's funny, because he only charged me a gram.
Okay, so that makes me less like his adopted father, and more like the sick uncle who diddled him for money. Whatever. Let's just drop it.
I didn't want to see the kid go out like that. It was hard for me. I couldn't even finish. Not even with myself, after he left with the blow. The coke, I mean. Not the… well, you know. I'm confusing myself. Hold on, a second.
SSNNNNRRRTTT SNRRRRTTTTT
Better. Where was I?
Right. Charmy was a good kid. Is a good kid.
SNNRT
Didn't want to see him go out like that. Asked him if he was interested in a little organ trade. He said he wanted to keep all of his, and I told him I could give a shit where he got them from. He caught on quickly. He was always a smart kid, you know? I always liked him.
SNRT.
Ooooh
