The Truth About Life

-Chase: Chapter Thirty-One-

I’m never sure how I get from place to place, I just wake up and more often than not, I'm always somewhere different than where I started the night before.

Man, my arm itches like crazy. I have these painful ulcers covering my arms where I stick the needle.

The skin on my face is getting to be full of craters too, a sure sign of a meth addict. I keep getting these pimple looking things that I scratch the shit out of when I’m passed out. Then they end up being these disgustingly painful open sores that just never seem to heal.

These past few months of wandering have led me to a small podunk town in California. Don’t ask me why I left my town, my home, my family.

After Milton died, I didn’t know what to do with all the pain. I just went off the deep end and couldn’t or didn’t know how to make my way back. I don’t even remember where the hell I was during his funeral.

Not there saying goodbye, I know that. Not supporting my family, not letting them support me, that’s for sure.

But you know what? They haven’t been there for me. I don’t need them or want them. Audrey was consumed with freaking Benson, my parent’s not even parenting.

I mean, if I were a dad I would know where my kids were, what they were doing. I would always pay attention to them, always love them. Not leave them or punch them. Just always be there. No matter what. Damn it, dad. This is all his fault, all of it.

All that he did led me to where I am now. The drugs, me leaving home, dropping out of school.

Deep down, I know this is all shit, I miss my family like hell.

Before I left town, I snuck into my house when I knew my mom and Audrey would be gone. I grabbed my favorite Adidas sneakers, some clothes and threw it all in a duffel bag.

Just being back, smelling the smells of home, almost made me stay. Almost.

I hitchhiked from town to town and eventually from state to state. The only way to stem the pain of missing home, my family, was more drugs. When I take them, when I shoot up, all is well in my life.

I don’t care how or where I get them, or even who I do them with. People I know, strangers, who cares. Just as long as I get them.

I’m in the dirty kitchen of an even dirtier restaurant, washing dishes for some quick cash. For now, the weather is warm, so I’ve just been sleeping in a stand of trees at a local park where a few other druggies and runaways are camping out.

This work is gross, scraping off and washing stacks of dishes, scrubbing silverware. My forehead drips with sweat, mixing in with the dirty dish water.

I haven’t showered in a few days; I can barely stand the smells coming off me. It’s all good, though, I’ll get my dishwashing cash tonight, buy a small stash of whatever drugs I can find to last a couple of days.

My heart speeds up just thinking about the high. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the lightheadedness to pass.

I drop another pile of plates in the water, suds and greasy water splashing all over the floor, my sneakers.

Honestly, I’m just happy the restaurant manager hired me; I know I look like shit. My skin sores, bloodshot eyes, un-showered.

He must have been desperate. I know I am.
 
I finish washing dishes around midnight, my arms are shaking, not from exhaustion, but from withdrawal. I need a hit, and something to eat. The manager walks into the kitchen, his stained white T-shirt straining over his bulging belly.