Unworthy Of Love (BXB)

34. Withdrawal

When I wake up, it's hard to tell if it's morning or evening. The night shifts in the last few months have completely screwed up my biological clock. I lay on my back, staring at the white ceiling of my one-room apartment and the long shadows cast by the window shatters, trying to remember what day it is. Then, I remember Raven.

I get up and make myself a breakfast—or a supper, depending on what you call the first meal of someone who wakes up in the evening. Then I sit in the kitchen, staring at my plate, picking at my food, gathering my thoughts.

The night has been too crazy to have been real. I've basically kidnapped a person and locked him in a basement of an abandoned warehouse—a totally psycho thing to do. I could perhaps still go there and set him free, no real harm done—there's no way he would go to the police, not given his drug use and what he does for a living.

I could let him go, allow him to sink to the bottom, which is what he wants, which is what the self-destruction mechanism inside of him is pushing him to do. What makes me think I could stop it from happening, anyway?

I must try, though.

I get dressed and leave for my night shift.

The sun is going down by the time I park my pickup on the employees parking lot. In the little cafeteria, I find Bart and a couple of other guys who have just finished their shift. We talk and share news and they ask me how my date was. I say it was fine, and Bart winks at me, and makes a 'your secret is safe with me' face. He just thinks I had sex with some girl in an abandoned building. If he only knew.

The night is long and boring, and as I patrol the grounds, I occasionally walk by the old warehouse, or catch a glimpse of its roof in between other buildings. I don't go there. Not yet. I have left a couple of blankets there for Raven, some bread, a bunch of bananas and a few bottles of water. It should be enough to make him comfortable—although from what I have read about heroin withdrawal, he's unlikely to be anywhere near comfortable in the next week or so. In a way, I dread to go there, to see in what state he is, so I postpone it for as long as I can.

It's not until three in the morning, when the place is at its quietest and most desolate, that I head for the warehouse.

In the basement, I stop by the dented metal door and listen. Everything is quiet. I insert the key and listen again. Nothing. I turn the doorknob and push the door open.

Raven slams into me with such force that all air escapes my lungs. I stumble back into the corridor, lose my balance, and fall backwards. I still have the presence of mind to catch him by the shirt, and he goes down with me, landing on top of me with a gasp. He tries to wriggle free, but I quickly get back on my knees and up to my feet and start dragging him back into the room by his shirt.

"No!" He struggles, but with one final effort, I send him flying into the room, ignoring the sound of tearing fabric. I step inside after him, slam the door closed, and lock it.

"There," I say, showing him the key. "It's locked. Calm down."

"Give it to me." He gets shakily to his feet, his eyes fixed on the key in my hand. He looks wild, his hair hanging by the sides of his face in greasy strands, his face glistening with sweat mixed with streaks and blotches of what's left of his mascara and eyeshadows. He looks deadly pale and unwell, like a man in a grip of a serious illness, which I guess he is.

"Nope." I push the key inside my jeans pocket.

"Come on." He makes a step towards me, spreading his hands. I can tell that he's trying to sound and act normal, even though he looks anything but. "Just let me go, okay? I feel really bad. I need to see a doctor."

"A dealer, you mean? Sorry to disappoint, but you're getting off the needle."

"Are you nuts?" His voice peaks briefly but he gets it under control. "All right, I see what you mean. You're right. I need to kick the habit. But not like this. There're places for that. Detox centers. They give you medications to ease the symptoms."

"Maybe you need to feel the symptoms," I say. "Like, really feel them, so that you'll think twice before using again."

"Are you crazy?" He leaves all pretense and grabs his hair, folding in half. "You don't know what it's like! My whole body hurts! I'm dying here, don't you get it?"

"You can't die from a withdrawal."

He looks up at me with wild eyes. "How would you know?"

"I've googled it."

"You've what?"

He launches at me again. I catch him by the shoulders and hold him at an arm's length. He wrenches free and ducks down, trying to stick his hand into my pocket with the key. I push him away and he stumbles and goes down, landing on the messed up blanket on the mattress. He sits there for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at me; then he hugs his knees to his chest and starts rocking back and forth, his face glistening with sweat, his eyes never leaving mine.

"It's not a game, James. It's really bad. You have no idea. It's horrible."

I shrug. "Maybe you deserve it."

"Is this a revenge?" He bares his teeth in a smile, but his eyes are desperate. "You're making me go through this because of what I did to you?"

I want to tell him that I'm not, but the truth is, there is a tinge of satisfaction, albeit mixed with pity, at seeing him like this. I was a mess, too. He's taken something from me, too, something I needed badly; he's taken my future away, and yet I'm here now, trying to give him one. He's clearly not in a state to appreciate it, though.

"Whatever." I cross my hands on my chest. "I just wanted to see how you're doing here. I see you've found the blankets. Don't forget to drink a lot of water and get some sleep."

"I can't sleep," he moans. "I tried, I can't. James, this is horrible, this is hell."

He slips off the mattress and crawls over to me. I step back but he wraps his hands around my knees and looks up, his face dirty and wet and crazy.

"Please," he moans, leaving wet stains on my jeans from the tears mixed with sweat and makeup. "Please, James. Help me."

"I am helping you," I say, trying to wriggle out of his grip. He clings to my legs; then, one of his hands dives into my pocket with the key. I grab him by the scuff of his shirt and push him away again. He lands on the floor with a thud, then curls on his side, shaking, hugging himself.

"Please," he keeps repeating. "Please."

I back away. I must leave before I change my mind.

"I'll be back," I say. "I'll check on you later."

I step out and slam the door shut, and as I turn the key in the lock, I can hear him scream.

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