Warning: Contains references to drugs & suicide. It's not too graphic, but it may squick some of you out. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not a bit of it. For Jonathan Larson I am not. And I don't own the Guster lyrics, from which the title is taken. Believe it or not, I'm not Guster, either.
Been so unkind without a hint
No warning sign for them
Read my apology
Their hope of disbelief
But no denial changes things
No remedy ahead
Guster, "Rocketship"
HIV.
AIDS.
Acquired Immune fucking Deficiency Syndrome.
I'm sitting here, in the loft, on the disgusting couch we've all bitched about for months but will never replace. Holding a slip of paper. One sheet of paper. Some typing, a signature, nothing to distinguish it from any other paper.
It's a piece of paper that's ruined my fucking life, that's all.
AIDS.
Calmly, I get up, tear the despicable sheet of paper into the smallest pieces I can manage with shaking hands, & toss it into the garbage can in the kitchen. No point in keeping that around, is there?
Tears come, unexpected, leaving hot trails down the sides of my face, making my eyes itch & my nose run. God, I hate crying. What's the point? A few tears shed isn't going to solve anything, is it? And don't feed me that bullshit about it being an "emotional release." Fuck that. But still, I can't stop crying. I slide down to the floor, leaning against the refrigerator for support, cradling my head in my hands.
I'm not sure how long I stay there, but nobody's come home yet - too busy with their lives, I guess. Whatever. I reach into my pocket & pull out the small bag of white powder. I've got all the company I need.
You know, I started shooting up at first just for fun. For the hell of it. It was a game to me. Just melt it down, fill a syringe, plunge the needle in, & let the good times roll. I don't know when I started depending on it, but I sailed past that point a long time ago & now it's far too late to go back. But what's the point of cleaning up now? I'm only going to die, anyway. Of AIDS. I'm an AIDS patient. And I'm a junkie. I'm a goddamn statistic.
And only a few minutes later, I'm high as a kite. I care. Except I don't care. I sit there on the couch, dazed, focusing on everything and nothing. Somewhere in my drug-addled brain, I come to the only logical conclusion I can, & I stagger into the bathroom.
Razor...razor...fuck, where's the goddamned razor?! I tear open the cabinet & pull things off the shelf frantically. I'm living in the company of a group of men & not one of them has a razor in here? Enraged now, I yank open the shower curtain, & sitting there in the soap dish is a cheap plastic disposable Bic. Who does this belong to? Mine now.
I pick it up, examine it, watch light glint off the cold metal. What next? Water...there's always water. I fill the tub, making sure the water is warm. Fuck it, if I'm going to die, I'm dying the way I want. Wrists slit open in a tub full of warm water. Sounds good enough to me.
Clothing. On or off? Nobody bathes with their clothes on. But then again, I'm not bathing, am I? The thought strikes me as funny & I throw my head back & laugh, the sound echoing hollowly off the tiled walls. Lower myself in. Water's nice. Grab the razor. In one careful, precise motion, I slash it down my left wrist vertically, because everyone knows you don't make a horizontal cut if you're trying to die. Practically common sense.
I watch the blood seep from the cut I've made. It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. Always seemed a lot more painful. Would it hurt more if I was sober? Probably. Would I be doing this if I were sober? Probably not. Good thing I'm high.
Roger. The name comes into my head so fast I blink. What about Roger? What about my semi-wayward boyfriend of late?
Fuck Roger. He's cared more about smack than me for months now. He'll manage without me. Probably won't notice I'm gone. He's so messed up now that he could stumble across my dead body tomorrow & not even fucking notice.
But he should probably know. If I'm infected, he is too. If it's not the sex, it's the needles. Dragging my index finger along the incision (starting to hurt a little more), I write "We've got AIDS" on the tile in small letters. Good enough.
I'm starting to get lightheaded. Time to finish this shit. I grasp the razor weakly in my left hand, poise it above my right wrist, & give myself a moment to smile sardonically.
This is April. Signing off.
We'll gather in my name
The morning will begin
It's all or nothing over there
It's teasing me again
I am not to be martyred
I am not to be worshipped
I did it not to be strong, strong, strong...