Cocaine.
My tongue swells.
Cocaine.
I can’t speak any other word.
Cocaine.
I close my eyes and I see Zelda there, penetrating me with the needle in her hand, the thin trickle of blood running down the curve of my forearm. We kiss each other with desperate sadness and urgency, even as the cocaine explodes into the recesses of our minds—leaving us gasping—flooded with pleasure—our barrier of skin dissolved so our lungs and muscles and veins tangle together—the two of us one. Together—together—one—always.
Cocaine has brought her back to me.
Cocaine has brought me back to her.
And I am so disgusted with the choices I’ve made.
I mean, how could I have abandoned her the way I did?
How could I have settled for this rotting, stale half-life—drinking alcohol all day long so I don’t have to face what I’ve become?
What I need is another line of coke.
So I steady myself, leaning against the doorframe while the first pulses of nausea convulse through my body. My head feels drained of all blood, like I might pass out any second. I have to keep hold of the counter surface while I struggle to pull the bottle of cheap-ass vodka out from where I’ve hidden it behind the refrigerator.
The first burning gulps of liquid make me gag, but I’m stronger already. I can feel the warmth in my belly fortifying my legs and arms so I can stand on my own again. I finish that bottle and then go to the front window, looking out to make sure Sue Ellen’s car really is gone.
It is.
Having been replaced by a scraggly-looking bobtail cat lying contemptuously in the sun—flicking its tail—the sky pale blue and cloudless overhead.
Another bright, sunny day.
Christ.
I pull the blinds closed and check the locks on the door, making sure to secure the dead bolt so that if Sue Ellen comes home early, I’ll have a little extra time to hide shit and whatever.
My mind plays over the possibilities of the day.
Mostly I just want to do the rest of the coke so I can get some really good writing done—especially since I’m pretty close to finishing the rough draft. The coke will give me a new perspective on what I’ve been working on and, I hope, help me figure out how to end the goddamn thing. I mean, I don’t know, somehow writing the ending has been by far the hardest part. But the coke will give me the creativity I need to think up something really great. It’ll help me see the truth. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Man, I remember when I was living with Zelda, we’d shoot coke in the bathroom and then I’d go out and write the dopest shit for just like hours and hours without stopping. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was the dopest shit—even if my editor kept telling me it made no sense and I needed to get into treatment. She probably just said that ’cause she knew I was relapsing. She was probably just trying to help me get clean. The writing was good. At least, I think it was. And I know this coke’s gonna bring me back to that place—a place where I can write without any self-doubt or insecurity—a place of raw inspiration.
’Cause the thing is, even if the rest of my life is a total goddamn failure, as long as I’m writing, well, at least that’s something to hold on to. And if I need coke to help me keep writing, then that’s just the way it’s gotta be. I’ll use my tip money to buy a gram tomorrow. It’s really not a problem.
So I put some music on the stereo.
David Bowie, of course.
Aladdin Sane.
I set up a line on the kitchen counter.
I wish I had a rig, but I don’t.
I take the line up a rolled dollar bill.
The drip down my throat is bitter—putrid.
My jaw clenches, and this fierce sensuality rocks my body.
I imagine Sue Ellen coming home.
I could show her the dark sexuality in me she’s never seen. We could make love the way I used to make love with Zelda.
But, no, Sue Ellen wouldn’t want that. If anything, I’d be ashamed to expose her to it. I mean, she’d be terrified and overwhelmed, and I would only end up hurting her even more than she’s already been hurt. I couldn’t do that to her. There’s almost a sick feeling in my stomach thinking about it. I’m suddenly repulsed by myself.
I mean, I love Sue Ellen. What I had with Zelda was dark and twisted and exciting, but it was all about death. Hell, everything in my life has been about death. This depression I have, this mania, this endless thirst. I have nothing positive to offer. I am a draining, sucking, using, consuming parasite. Sue Ellen doesn’t deserve this. She deserves goodness. She deserves light. All I can offer her is destruction—death.
I’ll kill her like I’ve killed everything else.
Unless I finally take myself away.
Away so that I can’t keep hurting all the people I love.
Fuck.
I mean, what the hell is happening? I’m doing coke. This should be fun.
But suddenly all I want is to be normal again—normal like I was before—before I was getting high, before I was drinking.
I mean, back then there was a time when I was happy, wasn’t there?
“Fuck,” I say aloud, through my teeth all clenched tight. “Motherfucker.”
I force my legs to take me over to the computer.
Writing will help. Writing will make it all worthwhile.
I light a cigarette, staring at the words on the monitor, trying to read over my last paragraph. My hands tremble against the keyboard. I write a few sentences—stopping and starting and stopping again—the words all jumbled—my mind refusing to listen to me—my mind repeating the same thing over and over.
My mind tells me to go into the bathroom.
My mind tells me to open the mirrored medicine cabinet.
My mind tells me to take the bottle of Tylenol PM into my hand.
I pop open the childproof cap, spilling out maybe twenty blue-and-white
