Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Cigarettes 'n Boats (Sequel to "Woof")

 The sequel to "Woof," just to bring it to its logical conclusion. This story is loosely based on the song "Cigarettes n Boats" by Approaching Nirvana (see above).
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"Are you sure you're going to be okay by yourself?" Jay asks as he opens the door to my filthy apartment and tries not to look into the dark pit of despair inside. I honestly can't blame him; I don't want to see it, either. I nod and hold my hand out for the keys, and he peers into my eyes, searching for something. "I mean it, Rob. I'm only going to the store and to Dad's house. I'm coming back to get you in less than an hour. The doctor said you can't stay by yourself, and if I see any needle holes, you won't even be going to the bathroom by yourself. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Daddy. Je comprends. Je vais conduire."

"Pack up all of your crap for the week before I get back, and we'll sit down with everyone and explain everything, okay? All of us are going to get through this." He pats me stiffly on the shoulder, not sure what else to say. I nod solemnly at him and he waves half-heartedly at me, not wanting to turn his eyes away from me as he leaves. I don't trust me by myself, either. I slowly close the door and lock it, walking slowly across the trash-covered floor to the patio door to open the blinds and let the light in. I haven't paid the electricity bill in months, and I have no reason to think that they would miraculously turn the lights back on for the holidays. It takes me a few minutes to gather up the courage to turn around and face the music. A thick wave of nausea flows over me when I do.

The stench of corruption and decay, urine and mold is as strong as it has always been, but after being out of it for three weeks, the odor is powerful enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know that isn't the only reason I'm crying. Empty beer and vodka bottles litter the floor and there is a mound of shredded cigarette packs in the middle of the living room rug. Whatever did that, it wasn't me. Month-old pizza crusts linger on the table and in their boxes on the countertop, filling the air with the sharp, tart scent of organic rot. Even the flies have moved out. How have the neighbors not smelled this and disappeared into the hills or, better yet, burned the whole thing down? The only thing this scene lacks is an actual corpse in the middle of the stage – it already smells of death.

The most haunting part of my homecoming wasn't seeing the trash I had become or smelling my spiral into addiction. The alcohol bottles, the cigarette butts, the vapor trails, the smoke stains, the acid holes, the glass shards, the blood drops, the needle containers... They all brought back memories, but nothing can compare to the collection of burned, melted, bent, twisted spoons and chemical-filled soda cans tucked into every nook, covering every surface. When Nooch lost his touch and faded away, Choco came out to play, and he wasn't as sweet and innocent as everyone made him out to be. They had a reason for calling him Krokodil overseas – he will eat you alive. They changed his name from Bodil when they changed the formula, when laughs and highs turned to zen and chill. He brought that easy, cheap, reliable numbness he promised, but the cost was too high to bear. He industrialized my thoughts, commercialized my humanity, devoured my soul, mutilated my body. That bright, beautiful yellow was the most toxic thing I had ever set my eyes upon and lo and behold! as soon as I get released from rehab, I crave his company again. I am his slave and he smiles knowingly and reassures me that the risks are low, that it would never happen to me. He tells me I am invincible to his evils as he sizes up how much meat I have left on my bones and decides how big of a meal he can get out of me.

He lies. Every word from his mouth is a lie. He offers no comfort, no high, no solace; all he brings is terror, lows, shame. The others may have picked away at my soul and rotted away my mind, but Choco picked and picked and picked at my skin and rotted my flesh away in chunks and sheets. He took away just enough pain to hide the horrors of his gift, just enough to cover up what he had done to me. Even after going three weeks without seeing his face, he sweet-talks me to come back even though I am still paying his debts. There is no apology or penalty, no treatment or drug that will give me my arm back. He doesn't apologize; he just promises that next time will be different, that spending the hour with him will make the pain go away. All lies.

I walk past him and his potion shop of bottles on top of the counter and head to my room to start packing, slipping the keys in my right front pocket to keep myself from losing them. I won't be using my left side much now, not that I have been able to for months now. What started as a small, black spot right inside my elbow soon became a line of pink, peeling skin down the inner side of my arm. It spread quickly, before I could know what was happening and before I could work up the nerve to go to the clinic to stop it. Within weeks my hand had gone numb and my fingers curled in and became difficult to move, slowly freezing in place and crumbling away. The tiny black hole grew and grew, trying to swallow me up whole, surrounded by an indentation of dying pink flesh and oozing white fat. It wasn't until the layers of skin and muscle began to fall away in the shower and revealed the greying, rotting bone that I reached out to my brother the doctor for help. I can see why he was always the favorite. He flew home the next day and half carried me to the emergency room, where they took one look at my face and scheduled me for surgery. They had seen my kind before. They knew there was only one treatment.

The feeling of them tapping on the dead, hollow bone with tweezers and carving into the putrid flesh with scalpels – all I felt were vibrations in my shoulder. It had spread that far that fast. They didn't use anesthesia to scrape the melted flesh away or saw through the bone; there was nothing left to numb. I had become the nothingness I had been seeking all along. I was awake the whole time, watching the concentrated, detached faces of the doctors and Jay's blank, pale face. He felt more pain than I did, watching the younger brother he had sworn to look out for fall apart in front of his very eyes. No, my arm was cold, stiff, hollow, dead, just like me. All of this took place three weeks ago and the gangrene, the blood poisoning, the nothingness has spread farther every day, even without Choco's bribes and bargains. I smell like a hospital floor, like bleach and antibiotics, barely covering up the stench of quickly dying flesh. I can still feel my fingers even though two of them had rotted away and fallen off before I reached for the phone to call for help. I barely recognize my yellowed, sunken face as I walk past the mirror, my eyes locking on the empty space where my arm used to be and the pinned up blue sleeve attempting to cover the shrivelled, dark red stump remaining. The decay continues as the drug circulates through my blood, no end in sight.

I have found my own purgatory on Earth and I will die a thousand times before Choco's gnarled fingers will decide to stop my heart. My blood poisons my body and my fear embalms my mind. He has a hold on me so strong that he can still tempt me even after everything he has done. My body is no longer mine, but I can't let him rot away Jay's heart and soul anymore. After everything I have put him, Mom, and Dad through, I owe them enough to not give in to his veiled taunts and empty promises. I can spare them from watching me fall apart during the holidays.

All I can do is end this for good. I can do the right thing for once in my miserable, worthless, empty life. I grab the metal cigarette lighter on top of my dresser and walk back to the collection of chemicals awaiting me in the kitchen. I flick the wheel, once, twice... The bright blue flame flickers as it sails through the air and lands with a sickening explosion between the bottles of industrial cleaners, lighter fluid, methamphetamines, and cracked over-the-counter pills, things that are still coursing through my bloodstream. Within seconds, I can't feel anything anymore, not even my phantom fingers.

I just wish he was a living, breathing person so I could make him suffer as much as I have.