Two Months Later: Mark
April. April 4th. Three months since that first hit. Three months and yet here I am still doing it, still waiting for someone to notice, to care…still waiting for the pain to go away.
I guess I know really that it never will. I know the pain will never fully go away. It can be temporarily dulled, but it never lasts long. Never for more than 15 minutes at the most, and I don't have the money to make it last longer. The small amount of cash that I have isn't even enough for those 15 minutes anymore. Now it's more like 10 minutes, 5, 3.
I don't know how Roger afforded all those months of happiness when he was using. The tiny amount of smack that I use isn't even enough to make me happy anymore. It's enough to keep me normal…out of withdrawal. But I can never seem to get that amazing buzz that I used to feel.
Yes, I've experienced withdrawal symptoms. Never severe. Never more than the shaking and throwing up that I've grown so accustomed to lately. And definitely not enough to knock some sense into me.
All the warning signs are telling me to stop: the shaking that's getting worse with each passing day, the constant and painful vomiting, the weight I've lost as a result of spending all the grocery money on heroin…all of is telling me to stop now before it gets even worse, before I get in deeper than I am already. But I can't…or won't.
I can feel the need getting stronger, the desire to use taking over my mind, pushing all the reasoning and common sense aside. All the thoughts, the warning signs, and signals going off in my head are taken over by the constant need for more and more of the only thing that can get me to feel anymore.
You know, it's funny. At first I shot up to stop feeling, to take away the pain that threatened to tear me apart inside. And now I shoot up to feel. To feel anything. Because somehow feeling numb is worse than when I could feel nothing but the pain. It's scarier. Because it's a signal that I'm heading down a path that I swore I'd never follow.
I still remember that first time…the first time I shot up. I swore it would only be that once. Just to take away the hurt and pain and loneliness that I couldn't seem to get out any other way. I said I would only do it until my friends found out and stopped me...until they cared. And then after that I promised myself I'd just do it once in a while, and only until they all noticed and realized the pain I was in. But it wasn't just that one time, and it's not just once in a while. It's all the time.
Not enough of the time.
The wave of nausea that washes over me is a confirmation of that. Not enough of the time. I simply don't have the money to buy the amount of smack that I need to keep me normal, to keep me from spending half of the day bent over the toilet or sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking.
I glance over at my camera sitting on the tripod and, just for a second, the thought of selling it flashes through my mind. But I push it aside quickly. The camera has become my new best friend, along with the heroin and needles. Just like the smack and syringes, it's with me every single time I shoot up. It's my confidant, the only one who will listen to my ramblings.
I still tape every time I do it. Every time I push that needle into my arm, the whir of the camera accompanies the prick of the skin, the amazing high, and the crashing down moments later. It follows me through the process as I throw up in the bathroom, sweat out of control…it films the bliss that is evident on my face for those amazing 5 or 10 minutes. And then it's gone and everything starts all over again.
Another wave of intense nausea washes through me, and a new pain that I've never experienced before, an awful cramp in my stomach, accompanies it and I know that I have to do it now before I'm too sick to properly inject the poison into my veins.
I quickly glance at my watch before my vision gets too blurred to see the time, and switch on my camera on the tripod, sitting in front of it with the ziplock bag that contains my stash in my lap.
"April 4th, 8:05 p.m. Eastern Standard time. A half hour from my last hit. Is it just me or is the time in between hits getting shorter and shorter?"
I sigh, depressed when I realize that the camera is the only one I converse with anymore. And the only one who cares to hear me.
"It's been three months since that first time and they still haven't noticed. They have no fucking clue and that's what hurts the most. Roger's still living with Mimi and, amazingly enough, he actually called here the other day. I was so happy to hear his voice, I thought that maybe he noticed something was wrong. It was when he told me he needed to borrow money for his AZT that I realized that there's no way he could have realized what was going on because he hadn't seen me in months, and hadn't spoken to me in just as long. I want to hate Mimi for taking him away. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only one that cared about me, and now with her in the picture there's no one to care. I took care of him all those months in withdrawal, I never left the loft just to make sure he didn't go out and hurt himself again. I dealt with him screaming, throwing things, hitting me, cutting me out of his life and replacing me with a drug. And then in one night it's all forgotten when a beautiful woman knocks on the door, asking for a match. It's ironic really. I gave up everything for him when drugs took over his life, and he doesn't even notice when they're taking over mine. So I guess it wasn't Mimi that made him stop caring after all…he never cared in the first place."
The image of the camera suddenly blurs in front of me and I try to focus my mind on the blinking red light as sparks of pain shoot through my legs and chest. I have to do it now or I won't be able to do it at all.
"Hit number 53," I say weakly and then plunge the needle into my arm, the heroin soothing the pain as it courses through my body and soothes my mind.
"What did you just say, Mark?"
I look up quickly and through the haze of colors, sounds, and objects I recognize the figure, clad in an orange and pink dress and standing in the doorway, to be Angel. Shit, I hadn't even noticed her come in. I had been to busy focusing on getting my hands to stop shaking for long enough to melt the powder and inject it in my arm that I hadn't realized that someone was right there behind me, witnessing my crime.
Somewhere in the back of my drug hazed mind realizes that this is what I've been waiting for, what I've wanted since that very first hit. But an even louder voice is screaming to lie, to cover up what I've been doing, and for the first time since I started shooting up I question my intentions.
This is what I wanted right? For my friends to find out and care? Yes…or at least that's what I had always told myself. But if that's true, than why do I feel such an overwhelming urge to lie so I can keep doing it? What's more important? Sympathy and attention from my friends, or the comfort and numbness that only my new best friend has to offer?
I know the answer instantly. Heroin. It's been more of a friend to me than Roger, Maureen, Joanne, Angel, Collins, Mimi, and Benny combined. For years they had ignored my pain…all my anguish had gone unnoticed, overlooked. All of them had left me, abandoned me, leaving me alone with my demons and nightmares.
And now, for once in my life, I have something to take it away…to take away all the pain and hurt that my friends never could…that they had never even noticed. And I'm not about to give it up now. My friends had left me and heroin took their place. And I can honestly say that heroin is a better friend to me than any of them ever had been.
So, looking up at Angel from where I sit on the floor, I make my decision. Roger had chosen Mimi over me, Maureen chose Joanne, Collins had Angel, Benny has Allison…and I have heroin.
My mind races, trying to think of an excuse as to why I'm sitting here on the floor holding a bag of needles in my lap and a bag of smack next to me. But before I even have the chance to open my mouth Angel hurries over to me and gets down next to me, grabbing the bag away before I even have the chance to react.
No, oh no, she can't do this… What will I do without my needles? What will I do without my smack?? I grab for the ziplock bag in her hands but my mind is hazy and my vision still blurred so I miss and end up losing my balance and falling forward on the floor.
"Fuck," I say as I struggle to sit up and reach for my stash again. But Angel already has her arms around me, supporting me and helping me over to the couch where she lies me down and grabs the blanket off my bed, throwing it over my body and then sits next to me on the floor.
She looks up at me on the couch, her deep brown eyes searching my own bloodshot ones, looking for the answers to all the unasked questions going through our minds.
"Collins is out of town. His sister is sick so he's staying with her for a while. I just thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing…I haven't seen you in a while."
She strokes my arm, the track marks clearly visible and laced in all directions.
"What happened, Honey? Why are you doing this?" she asks, motioning to my scarred arms and the ziplock bag on the floor next to her.
I glance at the camera, still on the tripod, the red light blinking and the zoom lens focused on me. Well, this would make for one hell of a film. I look directly into the camera, trying to focus on the red light so as not to daze out, as I say, "It's all that I have. No one noticed…no one cared. They all assume I'm happy and stable because I'm the one that solves all their problems, because I laugh and I smile and don't cry or complain when things go wrong. They don't want to see me as unhappy because if I had problems of my own, who would solve theirs? Who would be the one they'd run to when they had fights with their parents, broke up with their girlfriends, needed someone to take care of them? Everyone left…I have no one. The only time Maureen ever speaks to me is when she's in a fight with Joanne and needs a substitute production manager. And I don't even think Roger remembers who I am anymore. He just threw away a lifetime of friendship, completely forgot about me the night some beautiful woman comes into his life. All those months he was using I never left the loft. I stayed up all night, waiting for him to come home and when he didn't I went out searching for him and took care of him because he was too wasted to do it himself. I stopped seeing Maureen because he needed someone to take care of him when he was in withdrawal. He refused to go to rehab so I locked myself in here with him for three weeks, watching him constantly to make sure he didn't go out and shoot up again. I dealt with him screaming at me, cursing, hitting me, begging me to let him out… I held his hand when the pain was too much for him, I stayed by his side all those hours he spent throwing up in the bathroom to make sure he didn't pass out… I put up with his 6 months of silence when he was too depressed to talk, or eat, or even take care of himself! I fucking did everything for him. Christ, Maureen left me for another woman because I spent all my time taking care of him! And in one night…one night…it's all forgotten. He just packed his things and went to live with Mimi, and in the three months that he's been gone, I've gotten one phone call. And you know what he wanted when he called? Money. He needed to borrow money. He lives one flight of stairs away…it doesn't take that much to climb up 14 stairs to say hello to your 'best friend' once in a while. Wait, no. That's wrong. I'm not his best friend. He doesn't even know what's going on…what I've been doing. He doesn't know that I've been using his needles, going to his dealer… I don't have friends. The only friend I have – the only real friend – is heroin. So you want to know why I do it? Because I have nothing else. No one else. No one cares, no one listens, no one takes the time to realize that their 'friend' is falling apart right in front of their eyes. That's why I do it, why I need it, and why I'm not stopping."
Angel pauses for a second, taking this all in. After a moment she says, "Mark, honey, did you say you were using Roger's needles?"
I nod, beginning to feel myself shake, even under the heavy blanket covering my freezing body. "I cleaned them first."
"You started using heroin because you thought no one cared about you?"
I nod again. "It's true. They really don't care, they don't notice. None of them. I was high when Roger called the other day, he didn't realize – he didn't think twice as to why my words were slurred or why my sentences didn't make sense. And Maureen was here almost every day a few weeks ago. She needed help on her performance and she and Joanne were fighting so she came running to me – old dependable Mark Cohen. The only reason she ever talks to me anymore is when she and Joanne aren't speaking and she needs me to take care of the equipment or help her rehearse. You know, I wore tee-shirts every day she was here. I fucking left out my needles and smack and practically shoved my arms in her face and she didn't notice. No one did. Though I guess I shouldn't have really expected them too. They haven't noticed my pain for years now, I don't know why I thought they would now. It just shows how much they all 'care' about me."
"But Mark, we do care about you! If you needed help, why didn't you just come to one of us? To me? I would have helped you! This," she says as she holds up the plastic bag containing my needles, "isn't the answer. And you of all people should know that after what you went through trying to get Roger clean."
I open my mouth and am about to reply but suddenly the shrill ringing of a beeper sounds throughout the loft and Angel reaches down into her purse and presses the button, shutting it off. The alarm, I know, is set to remind her to take her AZT. Roger did the same thing with his beeper, though more often than not, he ignored it – or forgot to set the alarm altogether – and it was me who had to remind him to take it.
I look at Angel curiously as she stands up, picking up my bag of needles with her. I know for a fact that she carries her AZT with her, I've seen her take it many times in the past. So I'm surprised when she starts walking to the front door, still holding my stash.
"I have to go, honey, I'm sorry. I have an appointment. I'll be back later, I promise, and we'll finish this discussion then. And no more shooting up! It's not the answer, Mark. Really, it's not."
And with that she walks out
the door, my needles and heroin walking out with her.