Mix those with another bottle of vodka, I figure, and that should pretty well do it.
The tears come burning hot against my cheeks.
The breath is all stolen out of me, and I crouch against the tile floor, suddenly crying so hard it hurts to swallow.
I call out, just sort of trying to hear the sound of my voice.
It’s time to end this shit.
I know that’s the truth.
Hell, it should’ve been done a long time ago, before I had the chance to hurt so many people. And I swear I’m not being all self-pitying or anything—it’s just a fact. The world would be better off without me. Sue Ellen would be better off. My family would be better off. They would all finally be able to stop worrying. I wouldn’t be able to manipulate them anymore. I wouldn’t be able to build them up with hope again, only to knock them down—like I always do.
A shivering cold contorts my body.
I tell myself to reach into my pocket. I make myself do it, pulling out the rest of the coke, tossing it quickly into the toilet—sickened—feeling the cold metal handle like a static shock against my fingers as I flush the drugs down.
Sweat soaks through my T-shirt so it is wet and clinging to my back.
I tell myself to grab a handful of the pills. I make myself do it, beginning to swallow them down one at a time—counting out loud—starting with one—moving on to two—then three.
My eyes are closed and open.
I throw my head back, dizzy with pain as it collides with the bathroom wall.
I try to remember things.
I try to remember Zelda’s face.
I try to remember my father.
I remember his face.
I remember his brown-skinned hands pressing softly against my back. I remember the sound of his voice. I remember his features contorted in helpless crying. I remember seeing him weak and disoriented after the hemorrhage in his brain nearly killed him just a few years ago. I remember he is alive now. I remember he had a second chance.
And then I remember my little brother and sister. I remember the games we played and the stories we read together. I suddenly want to know so badly how they have changed over these last years. I want to know what they are like, what kind of people they are growing into. Fuck, man, if I could just take it all back. I can’t build my life back up again, man, I just can’t. I can’t quit drinking. I can’t make it better. I mean, hell, I just relapsed on fucking coke again. I am garbage. And the trash goes in the motherfucking trash can.
That actually gets a laugh out of me.
I look at the sleeping pills in my hand.
And then, suddenly, I have another idea. And this idea, well, it might actually work.
Maybe… maybe I can just sleep. I mean, maybe I can just lock myself in here and watch movies and sleep and, uh, yeah, it’ll suck, but I think I might be able to do it. Sue Ellen will be supportive. And I’ll stop drinking. And I’ll finish my book. And maybe I’ll even send my dad an e-mail and see if he might wanna start talking to me again.
My legs move beneath me.
I stand, putting the pills carefully back in their container. And then I walk, staggering, to the different hiding places around the house, gathering the bottles, emptying them one by one into the sink.
A blackness starts to close in at the corners of my eyes. The sleeping pills must be taking effect. My body slumps beneath the weight of the blackness coming down.
I make my way to the bed, stripping down to my underwear, my head filling with static—images cutting in and out.
I turn on the TV.
The sounds are all muffled and droning monotone—unintelligible—slowed to nearly stopping.
I nod and jerk awake.
I nod again.
The sleep presses in on me from every side.
I jerk awake.
Fuck.
I have to just let go.
I have to let go, but it’s so hard.
My eyes close.
The sounds are a blur of color bars.
I have to let go.
I have to.
Let go.
Let go.
The sounds fade to nothing.
And I sleep.
Ch.26
Amazingly, well, it actually kinda worked.
For five days I slept and was sick and the cravings got so bad, but I didn’t leave the apartment. I mean, hell, I barely left the bed. Sue Ellen was patient and brought me simple foods, and I slept and was sick and watched probably well over fifty different movies and then, finally, I don’t know, I started to feel all right.
The cravings let up a good bit, and my body got stronger, and now, I mean, I’m all right—at least, relatively speaking. Hell, I’ve even started writing again, and I’d say I’ve got a pretty solid draft about ready to send out to my editor. That is, I figured out some sort of ending.
So, uh, yeah, things are better. And all I can really say about that is, well, I guess that’s the cool thing about life, right? I mean, things change. One way or another, things always fucking change.
Unless I get dead.
If I get dead, then nothing’ll ever change again. And there’s this sort of numbness in me when I think about how close I came. ’Cause things really have changed. And they always do. I just wish I could remember that shit when the bad times come, you know? Hell, from now on I should just start locking myself in my room whenever I get too squirrelly. It’s not a bad idea.
But, anyway, besides all that shit, I finally wrote an e-mail to my dad yesterday, and it was crazy ’cause when he responded, he didn’t even sound angry at all. If anything, he just seemed grateful to hear from me. All this time I’d been thinking he was pretty much over having anything to do with me, and then, the first time I reach out to him, he writes
