My Eyes

Chapter six: Now and Then I Like to Feel Good

"And then he shoves me out the door, and down the stairs. I don't even know what his problem is! I was just trying to be friendly!" I ranted, pacing the streets, throwing my hands in the air. Collins laughed.

"Oh, you were friendly all right!" I glared at him.

"Its not you," Mark said softly. "Its April."

"What?" I snapped.

"I said you didn't do anything wrong. April did."

"I thought she was dead," I said bluntly. Mark winced. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"Yeah, she died. About six months ago. She and Roger had been together for a long time, and one day we came home, and it felt really… weird. Empty. Something wasn't right. We looked through all the rooms in the loft and couldn't find her anywhere. Roger saw a light on in the bathroom, and we decided she must have been in there. April liked to read in the tub for… hours on end. Roger knocked on the bathroom door, and she answered. A few minutes later, I heard a sniffing sound, like someone was crying, but I ignored it. I ignored it." Mark shook his head. "After an hour, Roger knocked again, but she didn't answer. He went in and screamed. I looked in and saw April, so pale, so white, so dead, laying in the tub, a pink razor in her hand, her arms slashed open." My hand flew to my mouth in horror. Mark's face had turned dangerously whitish-gray. Collins laid a hand on his shoulder. I sank to the ground, speechless.

"I know what," Angel said brightly, breaking the mood. I scowled at her. "Mimi, you come with us to Maureen's show tomorrow!"

"Who's Maureen?" Collins and Angel looked at each other and laughed. Mark's face turned bright red.

"My ex-girlfriend."

"I don't understand. What's so funny?"

"She left me, and is now perfectly happy with her girlfriend." My eyes widened in recognition, and I made a choking sound in the back of my throat, desperately trying not to laugh. "Go ahead and laugh!" he said, punching Collins in the arm. I was shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Maureen is a performance artist," Collins explained between gasps. "She's protesting Cyberarts. Our good old friend Benny wants to throw all the homeless people out of Tent City to build a cyber studio. What's wrong with you?" My eyes had narrowed at the words "Benny" and "Cyberarts".

"Nothing," I growled. "Me and Benny go way back. Listen guys, I have to go. I'm pretty tired."
"Okay, Chula. I'll see you tomorrow?" Angel asked.

"I don't know. We'll see. Bye."

"I'll come with you," Mark said. I smiled.

"Thanks. We wordlessly walked up the stairs to my apartment. "Well, uh, thanks again, Mark."

"He's really not that bad. He just…"

"I know. I'll see you later, Mark." I went inside and fell onto my bed. The rage I had felt before was replaced with pity, and though I was tired, I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing – filled with thoughts of Roger, April, and me. I wasn't afraid of much these days, now that I had a steady job and a roof over my head, except one thing. Death. This fight with Roger, and the story of April, sharpened that fear. Because I was largely alone, who would care whether I were dead or alive? And what would they think of my disease? "Oh, she had AIDS, she must have been a slut. Good riddance." And I thought, Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? A single tear escaped and crawled down my face as I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

X

That night, I dreamed that I was walking down an empty, narrow hall with red walls – nobody to be with, or talk to, or even see. Only echoes of a voice shouting at me, ringing as I walked down the hall feeling so very alone…

X

I woke up, sweaty and scared and needing a hit real bad.

I didn't always used to be a junkie. In high school, I was a pretty good kid, except for the goofy crap that everyone does in high school. I had nothing to worry about. Then Dad died, and it all went downhill from there. When I had been in New York a while, I went to a party with a guy I had met a few times. It was your typical burn-out party, people passed out on the floor, people drawing on the faces of the sleepers, locked doors where people were doing everything imaginable, and music blaring so loud, you had to scream to be heard. At the party, I smoked a little bit, drank a little bit, nothing serious, when I stumbled upon the guy in the bathroom, a belt around his upper arm, and a needle in his hand.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Heroin," he grunted, not looking up.

"Well… what is it?"

"What, are you stupid? It's a drug."

"But drugs are – "

" 'Drugs are bad'," he mocked. I looked down, embarrassed. "You listen. This is some of the best stuff that's ever happened to me. I feel great all the time. Want some?" I looked down and bit my lip, feeling apprehensive. He stared at me.

"Shoot me up," I said.

I was high as a kite. The feeling was so exhilarating, so amazing, so wonderfully good! I was hooked. I became a heroin Nazi. Anything to get money for a fix – the Man wasn't cheap. So it was today. I had overslept again, and debated all day whether or not to go to the show. It was my day off – did I really want to spend it at home reading some book I had stolen from the library? Boredom won, and I grabbed my coat. Running around the corner into Tent City, I quickly found my dealer, standing smugly in the shadows. After completing the transaction, I looked up to see someone I hadn't thought I'd be seeing again.

Roger.