She Coyote

21. A tattoo of a rose

JUDE

As soon as Coyote left I finally allowed myself to breathe. I was on the verge of panicking. What if she found out about what happened to me last night at the gas station? I didn't know what I would tell her. I was embarrassed and ashamed and I didn't want anyone else to know as long as I lived.

I sighed deeply, opening up the fridge. It was nearly completely empty besides the half used carton of eggs, some milk, and cheese. I remembered my promise to stock up her fridge.

Oh shit. Oh fucking shit. All my damn money was fucking gone because of those pricks and now I had no way to buy Coyote groceries like I swore I would. I groaned loudly, throwing my head back and slamming the refrigerator door shut. "For fuck's sake," I mumbled aggravated, searching around the living room adjacent to me for a telephone.

I figured I could call Jasper and ask for some money, then again he probably wouldn't talk to me ever again because of my failure to give up the drugs like I insisted I would.

I didn't want to give up drugs, I saw no reason to. Sure, I wasn't motivated to work or to go places or to be around anyone who didn't give me more drugs, but still. I was content with my lifestyle. I was fine.

When my mother discovered me passed out in my room with a needle sticking out of my arm she completely lost her shit. She had no idea I was using and finding your twenty-one year old son overdosed on his bed at eleven o'clock at night isn't something most mothers are prepared for.

She dialed the police, which sent an ambulance full of paramedics who injected me with an ocean sized amount of naloxone, which eventually snapped me back to reality. The first face I saw was my mother's. I don't think I've ever seen someone so terrified in their life, yet so relieved.

My overdose wasn't something I remembered like someone remembers a memory. It was more like a dream, a distant, far away dream. I saw fleeting images rushing in and out of my head, distinct but somehow scattered like a mess of chess pieces on a board. That was about 9 months ago or so, I had started losing count of the days.

I was clean for a little less then two months before I crumbled and gave in to my withdrawal. It was unbearable. I was constantly paranoid, nervous. I couldn't fight through the attacks of spasms and fidgeting that seemed to have no end. I would throw up and be angry at absolute nothing. I would throw things, kick things. I was afraid I would hurt someone I loved. I didn't like who I was when I wasn't on heroin. I was a lost, confused, enraged kid who didn't have anything to tie himself to anymore. I didn't have anything to fall back on.

I detached myself from my thoughts, sitting up on the kitchen counter. I didn't know what to do. Who would I call? I couldn't think of a single person who would help me. Coyote would. But unfortunately she was the one I needed to help this time.

I didn't know why she so suddenly was being as kind as she was. It alarmed me. I was waiting for her to erupt and kick me out once she realized what a wasted loser I was. Was there something about me she admired? Did she see some sort of hidden light inside me that she believed she could fuel and spark into an explosion the size of the sun? I was putting too much thought into this.