Drugs

Chapter I

 August 17th, 2016

What is the purpose of life?

My knees buckled onto the ground while the rain fell upon my face, my salvation was gone. They say you're born alone in this world. In this moment here and now, looking at this grave, those words rang true. I slumped my shoulders from the weight they carried. The priest placed his hand upon me, merely adding to my burden, as he left me alone. There was no comfort here, nothing else around me mattered; neither the mourning of those around me, the sombre sky that mocked me, nor this green pasture littered with graves. In a heartbeat, I would sacrifice it all to have you back.

"Mom, are you happy?" I whispered under my breath.

My entire life had been a bizarre patch of no luck but failures. It was like a curse branded upon my chest. Not once did I make you proud, no matter how hard I tried. I did everything right, I went to school, I worked a normal job, and I never had a criminal history.

"Then why God?"

All I was left with on my tongue was if: if I had a better job, if I had known I took the wrong steps, if I could see the future.

Money was the answer to everything.

If I had it, everything would be better. It doesn't matter from where, it was a matter of how much. Then I would have been able to save you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!!" I shouted at the grave, each with more fury than the last.

"How could my life get any worse? What did I do to deserve this?" I hit my fist upon the ground, over and over until my hand bled. "I refuse to accept this, it's not fair!"

"Young man, are you okay?" a voice called.

Glancing I saw an old woman looking over at me.

"Yes," I said, under my breath.

I paused for a while, coming out of my hysteria before I straightened myself and got up to leave. Not bothered by those who had witnessed my outburst, now pointing at me like some sort of spectacle.

My mother wouldn't want to see me like this.

I turned one last time to look at the grave — here lies:

'Esmeralda Foster.'

I envisioned the last smile she had given me, in the hospital, the day before she died. It was pleasant, and it didn't seem like there was any regret. I pulled my ear as I stood there for a while, I had to believe that it was all for a reason.

Yes, she had to be happy, right?

If there is a heaven or hell, she would be the one to go to heaven. She was perfect. She was pure.

Walking back through the funeral gates, my neighbour, Ms. Glenbrook, was walking in. There was a still silence between us as we passed each other. I reached my twenty-year-old rusted white car. The Mitsubishi sign at the front was nearly fully off. Betty had seen better years, a lifetime ago. It was only when I sat there, in front of the black coverless steering wheel, and threw my rented jacket in the passenger seat, that the tears came flowing down my eyes. No attention paid to how drenched my body was.

I took my battered red Nokia phone from my pocket and rang Andrew.

"The person you called is not available right now, please leave a message after the beep," a robotic voice chided. I exhaled, tapping my free hand on the steering wheel.

"Hey Andrew, call me, it's Domenic," I said, clearing my throat.

My eyes glanced at the time in the car: ten minutes to six. It was wrong yet again. Pulling slowly out from the car park, started my wipers and turned on the temperamental radio. I was greeted with the crackle of static before it landed on Channel 191.