Drabble Thirty-Seven : Realign
I wake up one morning, having slept at the foot of Sandra's bed. Her foot is what wakes me by kicking my face. The both of us fell out after getting high. I never thought I'd see the day I was on level with my junkie aunt. I hate it but somehow I can't really bring myself to stop. I tried last week. Cried myself stupid in the bathroom with a needle in my arm and thought never again. I went almost the entire next day before the withdrawal was too much. I'm a fucking addict to much worse than nicotine at this point. Mandy knows now. She knew about Sandra, but was happy to live in a blissful state of denial about me until last week. Or maybe it was only a couple days ago. My perception of time is kind of lapsed. I haven't been to work since a week before Reba showed up. Whenever that was.
I fucked Greg sometime a few days ago, but haven't been to the fights in about a month. I think.
The month is. . .I think early July? I don't know.
Rolling off of Sandra's bed, I stretch and survey the room. We left her bag out, but now it's missing. I walk around, heart racing away from me. I trash the whole room before Sandra wakes up, sort of, and throws a pillow at my head.
"Be quiet!" she slurs, sleep heavy in her voice. She presses her face into her pillow and yanks the covers over herself more. Curls into a ball. She says something else, but it's too muffled to understand.
I curse and stomp out of her room. Panicked. Because I know for certain that I left the black bag beside me when I passed out. But then again, maybe I didn't.
Walking toward the living room, I groan in misery and rub at my bare arms. Unlike my aunt, I'm all right to be awake a few hours before the need gets too bad. Before I shoot up or pop a pill. My plan this morning is to eat something finally, if there is anything in the kitchen. I'm not working anymore so no one's buying food. What was left of my last trip to the grocery is probably emptied out or almost. But saying there is at least some crackers, I plan to eat that. Maybe curl up on the couch and claw my skin off until I can remember what happened to the bag.
It's only when I see that the sofa is currently occupied that I stop and think maybe my sister has the black bag. Maybe this is her way of trying to cure me.
I scowl. To the knee raised up on the sofa, the only part of Mandy that I can see, clothed in jeans, I say, "Where's Sandra's bag, Mandy?" I say, "I need it."
"No you don't," comes my response, in a voice that doesn't at all belong to my sister. The voice is deep, sarcastic, and snooty. I know it immediately even though I haven't spoken to Lip Gallagher in what seems forever.
My lip raised, blood boiling, I go, "The fuck are you doing in here, Gallagher?" Full of malice. If he thinks for one second he is going to worm his way back into my good graces, he's got another thing coming.
Lip sits up, holding the black bag that my eyes are immediately drawn to. He turns it over, frowning, sighing as he looks from the bag to me. His eyes stare directly at my arm. there aren't a lot of track marks yet. I've not been using long enough. But I know snide ass has seen something. He looks at me, disappointed.
"Jesus, Mickey," Lip breathes. "Really?" he asks, and I can hear how hurt he is.
Fuck him. Like he really gives two shits.
"Get the hell out," I snap, marching over. I grab for the bag, but Lip pulls it back.
He tisks me, holding the bag out of my reach and standing up fast, backing away. "Mandy tells me she can't even get you to leave the fucking house," Lip says. He tucks the bag down the front of his pants in an act of defiance when I step close again. Like that will stop me.
"I leave the house when I feel the need," I go, sour faced, prepared to throw myself on top of Lip and wrestle away the black bag. My blood pressure is sky rocketed. "The shit do you care?" I hiss. "Hand it over!" I growl, fist balled.
Lip laughs bitterly. "Yeah you leave to get fucked by Greg Dales. To score some more," he pats the front of the bag, "of this junk." He shakes his head. Motions over me with his hand. "My God, Mickey! What the fuck is going on with you?" he asks, knowing damn well. He licks his lips and takes a minute to collect himself. All the while backing away from me still. He holds out a hand to stop me approaching. "I know you're mad at me," he says.
"Understatement of your lifetime," I bite.
He winces. "I'm sorry," he says. "I don't. . ." he trails, takes a big breathe, "I was a total dick."
I cock a brow, heart ready to leap out, fists ready to pound his face in.
He throws the bag at me, and I must look terribly surprised. In one breath he tells me that he's thrown everything out. Flushed the tar, tossed the needles and every bottle of downers and uppers I had stashed in the pockets. "It's empty," he tells me while I look to be sure. He furrows his brow and almost reaches out and grabs my shoulders because I'm shaking, but he shifts back, unsure. "You're not a junkie, Mickey," Lip says, confident. "I'm getting you off this shit," he says just before I punch the fuck out of him.