Vienna

Finally, My Love

It's been dark for a few days.

Max came over last night and stayed. He brought tequila and flowers and a little baggie of coke and some weed. I sunk deeper, because I knew he was trying to creep me away from the Xanax. I wanted the Xanax. I needed the Xanax. He told me he wanted me to stop, just for a little while, because he needed to sell more than usual this month, and I guess he can't really get any more than he has for a few weeks.

     I saw him with a stick, poking and backing away, afraid I'll strike out. I trembled and decided not to bite.

     I cried, desperately and helplessly. He held me, I begged, he promised, I accepted the temporary comfort.

We did some lines, smoked some blunts, ordered sushi, and he promised me he would be here. That he'll be here for when the cravings hit and for when I feel crazy.

I put the flowers in a beautiful crystal vase he bought me when I was still in love with adult things. He had wanted to show me he could join me, in my life and my world. I joined his. I don't think that was anyone's fault except mine, and his world is so colorful. How could I not melt into him?

I don't have the energy to put on red lipstick in the mornings anymore. Maybe that's why I faded away. My liveliness blew away like sand in the wind. The color bled out of my lips and cheeks and I turned dull, just like my life and my classes and my family and my friends and the sun and the moon and the sky and the sea. Everything went dark and all I could see was him because he lit up like fire.

He was fun, and reckless, and so, so beautiful. I was 16 when we met. I guess it's been five years. I barely remember it, but the flame still burns inside. I would never trade our torture for anyone else's.

When I think about it, truly and deeply, I should regret dropping out. Of course it was reckless and impulsive and stupid. I can't access that part of me. Everything could change if I start to feel.

     Nobody can see, except us. This was the only way. When I met him I knew I could never let go of this love and life. I tried. I went to college right after I graduated. I just couldn't handle living so far and I couldn't think without him. I felt useless in my writing because my power came from my love for Max. If I couldn't be with him I couldn't be with myself. After a few months of torture, he told me he was getting an apartment near my school. I was so excited and that excitement took me far enough to move in. Nothing could feel as good as his security.

Then things got complicated. He started getting access to more Xanax than he knew what to do with. In a new city he needed time to settle and start building clientele. With my anxiety out of this world, he started giving me small doses after hard days, or when I couldn't relax, or when my mind hurt. Then, small doses after we fought. Eventually, he started leaving me multiple pills when he had to go away for a day or weekend.

And it was all over when I figured out I could take them in the mornings and lay on the floor until classes had passed and I could move again. By the time Max got home, I could pull myself together and pass it off as stressed or sleepy, because he often forgot how much he gave me. Maybe because he took pills too.

After a few weeks, I knew that it was one of those moments where you go left or right, and I took a left turn. I dropped out of school, and I disappeared. Only Max knew where to find me, physically at least. I was a ghost for weeks. Maybe months. I don't remember how long it lasted but I remember when it ended.

When Max first tried to take the pills away. When the anger started. When I broke down and begged him, promised I wouldn't take them all, pleaded for just a few bars while he was gone. I couldn't take the emptiness. It hurts, I said. It's clawing at me, I screamed. Please, I just can't take it. Tears leaked out of his sullen eyes. It worked. We took Xanax together for the first time and I felt like I finally understood him. Now that he knew what I was, and now that we could share our numbness together. He was so beautiful. Then, I decided, I was never going back. It would hurt so bad to confront that stupid girl I was.

     So now I sit, 21, with nothing of my own. Sure, I have a job, and I pay some rent. Really, I'm nothing. I was never going to be anything without him.

Today, the rain put a curse on Earth and on me.

I still don't have any bars and I'm still alone. I haven't taken my meds in days. The apartment is a wreck. All I had the energy to do today was lift the bottle of tequila and pour whatever was leftover into my mouth. The only reason there was even liquor in the bottle was because I haven't been able to move for days.

The depression set in around the third day sober and has only gotten worse. I needed to pee, desperately, but I just couldn't think of a single reason why I should fight for my life swimming through the deep dark ocean of my apartment just to reach the other side, where I can't breathe any better than I can over here. So I held it until Max got home.

He found me shivering on the floor, whimpering and crying, holding my stomach. He asked if I took anything, or if I'm drunk. I couldn't answer. I just sighed, and sobbed. Pathetic. He lifted me and brought me to the bathroom. He undressed me, sat me in the shower, undressed himself and sat with me. I continued sobbing, pleading him to just put me back. He told me I was a mess and it looks like I haven't moved in days. He let me pee in the shower even though he thinks it's disgusting, and he washed my hair, scrubbed my body, and let me pick the body wash he used. I felt warm again.

I fell asleep in his lap, as he rinsed my body a third time. I woke up in bed, with Max next to me, smoking a joint. He put it in my mouth and I pulled. He asked if I wanted water or juice for my meds, and I sleepily told him we didn't have any juice, and I didn't know if I had any meds left. He already picked up orange juice and my prescription. I smiled and almost fell back asleep. He told me to open up and I swallowed my pills. Not the ones I wanted.

We finished the joint and watched the sun set into the dark weather. Raindrops smacked the window and I listened. I fell asleep again, and when I woke up the next morning, he was still there.

He asked if I wanted to talk about the future. I did. He said he wants to move back here. It's his place after all. Before he started disappearing more and more, we used to rent completely equally together. Since I've been working less hours and he's been working more he's been paying for mostly everything, going to work and making sales and staying with friends, and I've been living here mostly alone. He doesn't mind at all and prefers it this way. He loves to take care of me. I don't know if it's selfish to wish he was here with me.

     He works all day every day, he does construction. That's what he's always done and I've always loved how he keeps another job. He doesn't see another way, he likes to have the stable income and the coverup for his other ventures. I don't know all of his friends but I know he has enough that he has somewhere to stay if he needs it. I know some of his friends have a house they sell drugs out of and he never wants to bring me there. I think that's where he goes most of the time.

     When I think about Max moving back in and really being around for once, I feel like I have something to hide. It's been so long since he's lived here for more than a few nights at a time, so long since he stayed the night and I didn't wonder about where he was gonna stay the next. The dishes piled in the sink are indicative of my falling apart, as is the disaster surrounding me.

     I feel relieved, in some ways. I guess I was kidding myself thinking I would figure it out on my own. I know I'm sinking. I knew he would come back eventually. I don't know if he's coming back because he knows, or because of something else entirely. All my paranoid brain can assume is he has realized how pathetic I am here alone, drowning in my own tears.