She Coyote

36. The Panic in Needle Park

COYOTE
Jude had been sober for two days. It was terrible to watch him like this.

I would rub his back and sit on the sink as he barfed his guts out kneeling over the toilet bowl. He would twist and turn and pull the sheets all night, never able to quit fidgeting. He would get angry at almost anything, sometimes I was afraid he would hit me. But I knew he wouldn't. Besides, I would just hit him back. I knew I could defend myself if need be, but I still didn't want it to have to come to that.

"How often were you using at Bobcat's?" I asked as I curled up on his lap, the tv blaring white noise in the background. Neither of us were paying attention to it, but it still echoed on through the small space of the apartment.

"Everyday, all the time." He answered, his fingers in my hair.

"I can't believe you just expect to quit cold turkey." I told him as my hand ran up and down his arm. He shrugged, leaning his head down to rest against the top of mine.

"I'll figure it out." He said. I could tell he didn't really want to talk about it, so I tried to drop the topic, but I heard him ask through the coldness of the air, "would you still love me even if I can't stop?"

I hesitated briefly. I didn't want him to think he could just carry on shooting up and being with me. Or maybe he could. I just didn't want hard drugs in my life anymore, and he understood that. Maybe I was being too harsh on him. I couldn't tell if I was in the wrong for trying to get him clean. I wasn't even sure if it was my business. I didn't realize that I didn't answer him until he said, "I'll take that as a no, then."

"What...? No, hush, I was thinking." As if it was instinctual, I kissed his cheek, throwing an arm around him. He was easily pushed away by the slightest things and I couldn't afford to have him run away from me anymore. "I would, but I think I wouldn't want to. That sounds terrible, but—"

"No, I get it," he assured me quietly, patting my thigh.

"Are you okay?" I asked him through a worried squeak.

"I just have to get through these first couple weeks, I think I'll be fine. It's just right now it really sucks. My stomach is killing me. Do you have any pain killers?" He glanced at me innocently.

"No, of course not." I frowned.

"I can't...think straight. I just want to curl up in a hole and die." He groaned, throwing his head back.

"You'll get through this. You did it before." I tried my best to be reassuring, but even I could easily detect this wasn't where my strengths lay.

"Yeah, for like two seconds."

"You'll be fine." I repeated, hoping that maybe this time I'd actually convince myself of that, too.

...

The whole night Jude was sick to his stomach, moaning from the pain. His forehead was burning up and nothing I did to try and distract him seemed to do the trick. I felt so useless, like all I could do was sit back at watch him suffer. He was barley holding on, and it pained me to see it.

He repeatedly begged me for anything I had; ambien, xanax, whatever. It was getting harder and harder to tell him no. We had lost ourselves in a mutual rage when I had to chase him to the bathroom in order to stop him from swiping any meds I had. I hated yelling at him and I'm sure he hated yelling at me. I couldn't even make out what we were saying as we tried to scream over each other's angered voices.

On the third day he was silent. He didn't talk to me. Even when I approached him with as much tenderness as I could possibly muster, he simply declined my actions without even so much as an emotionless reply. He would glance at me, puff out his cigarette smoke, and then continue staring out the window. He wasn't angry at me, though. He was angry at himself.