White Rabbit

Part Two

I can't be out for long because when I wake up I can see straight and I'm only a little woozy. Maybe a minute or two. Maybe not even that.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, with the little hole in the corner that dimes and pens always slip through. I pull up my girlfriend's number.

I don't call her.

I text her, instead.

When will you be home?

With every second that passes, the hairs on my neck twitch colder, my nails scratch harder into my wrists as I hold tightly to myself. Finally, my phone goes off.

Just finished a deal. On my way home now. See you soon, babydoll.

'Baby' isn't okay. 'Babygirl' even less. But something about the way she says 'babydoll' makes me feel pretty, and wanted, and maybe even innocent again.

Ha! Innocent my ass. You haven't been innocent since Katie --

"Fuck. You."

I don't know what the deal is for. I just hope it's something strong.

---

My girlfriend walks in behind me, where I'm curled up on the couch. The door opening reflects in the TV, the black of her silhouette.

"I brought you something," she says.

"Drugs?" I croak.

"Something else, too," she says.

I finally sit up and turn around, looking over the back of the couch as she digs through a plastic bag. She pulls out a bottle of lotion.

"Apricot," she says.

"I know it's your favorite," she says.

I pull my other hand up so they're both on top of the couch, and she frowns.

"What did you do to your hand?"

"I punched your mirror," I say.

"I'll pay for it," I say.

"You really bought something for me?" I ask. My voice is soft, afraid if I speak too firmly, she'll take it away. She smiles.

"Yeah. I'm broke as shit but I'm not a miser. I know you've been having a hard time and I thought this might help."

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Do you want to get high and then I can put it on you, or vice versa?" she asks.

"I don't know," I say.

"It doesn't matter," I say.

---

We start with small bumps of about three milligrams of heroin each.

"We can always work up," my girlfriend says.

"No rush," she says.

She rubs the lotion between her hands to warm it up. It's silky and soft and it smells like my grandparents' old backyard, at the house they sold last summer with the apricot and pear trees. Her thumbs are gentle around my scars. I lean closer and drop my forehead to her shoulder. Heroin's a lot stronger than any dose of Oxy I've gotten my hands on. I feel like I'm floating in salt water. Sinking in quicksand. She kisses the tip of my ear.

"You need to start treating yourself better, babydoll," she murmurs.

I hum, noncommittal. Just keep touching.

"Are you back on meds yet?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"Too expensive since I lost my parents' insurance. I'm lucky I can even see my psychiatrist on a sliding scale fee. But they don't do that for meds."