The Whispers

23: Dead

"One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night." - Margaret Mead, American cultural anthropologist.

It wasn't long before I found a bag of cocaine left behind - part of me thinks he left it on purpose so that I wouldn't go through withdrawals but I know it was on accident. He wouldn't leave without taking all of his precious substances with him - he went to rehab and watched his mom die just to come out of it back where he started, addicted and living a terrible lifestyle. He wouldn't leave shit for me, he's too caught up doing whatever the hell he wants to care about others.

Maybe that's too harsh. He probably cares about me on some level - convinced himself that my condition is all his fault, which is only partly true, and feels the need to clean it up by buying me food so I don't starve and die. He would never leave anything for me, though, he's told me many times he didn't want me on drugs.

He didn't want me on drugs yet he gave them to me and made me a fucking narcotics abuser like him. He didn't want me in this lifestyle but he told me that selling illegal substances brings him money and could get me anything I wanted. Paraded it around and danced on the cash while putting pills in each other's mouths.

He's a hypocrite.

The bag left behind is huge and has enough to keep me high for weeks in case Harper didn't come back.

Maybe I shouldn't have waited for him - perhaps the fight we had was enough for him to leave for good. He probably thinks I hate him or that he's no good for me, which he isn't but I'm no good for him, either. I waited and waited, hoping that I hadn't just pushed away the only person that could stand to be around and that he would come back.

He didn't.

It's been one week now and I haven't cleaned up the spilled milk. It smells terrible but I refuse to touch the moldy dairy. It's gross and I don't have enough energy. It's hardly on my mind when I'm high, anyway. I have to focus on drowning out the whispers.

"She's not going to make it. You have to go to her. Run run run."

"Time is running out and you're doing nothing."

"Your father would be so disappointed."

"You'll regret this when she's dead."

They chat until I inhale the white powder. They shut up quickly and don't speak again. Drugs are magical - I don't even have to murder insects anymore because shoving crack up my nostrils does the trick.

Maybe I should listen to their warnings - then again, they aren't really warning me of anything because they can't actually talk. Ignoring them is good for me. Perhaps if I ignore them long enough their voices will be gone forever.

I inhale deeply as I take another line. I haven't been to school in weeks and I'm surprised the board hasn't called the police to check in on me. Maybe if the cops came they'd bring me to a group home in a city far away from this town. At this point, it's almost a dream to leave.

Maggie would be disappointed if she knew what was happening. First, she'd tell me not to take drugs that could possibly kill me because she's the only person that truly, deeply cares about me, second she would try and clean up my mess of spoiled milk because she's too generous, and then she'd cry that Mom abandoned us. She'd weep until there wasn't anything left and then she'd make up some kind of excuse as to why she left. She'd say that mom was in a ditch somewhere, dead, because her being dead is the only reason that she wouldn't come home to her children. No loving parent would just-