I trust him. I really do.
But his first meeting was only two days ago.It’s been over a year since he went. He’s barely out of the detox phase and he’s already running around like nothing happened.
To say I’m just a ball of goddamn anxiety is an understatement as I pull the door closed behind me and dump my keys into the bowl next to it.
The clang it makes grates across the silent morning and I cringe.
Quiet.
Funny how paying attention to the noise I make hits different now.
“Em?” I ask the still dark house. There’s the normal light coming from the single bulb above the stove, a gentle glow from the nightlight in the hall, but otherwise it’s as if the house is still asleep.
Fuck, I hope I didn’t scare the shit out of him.
When I don’t get an answer, my palms itch.
The first place I go is the bathroom. My fingers tingle when I open the medicine cabinet, devoid of orange bottles for a reason, and sigh.
It comes out shaky.
I’m trembling as I push aside the aftershave that neither of us use.
I’m such a liar.
The black pouch stares back at me from its hiding spot, the corners worn from use, paint chipped off the zipper.
Quiet.
The vial burns inside my pocket.
It’s half used and already punctured. Unsanitary.
It should have been thrown away.
“No. No,” I mumble to the nothingness and snatch the pouch, unzipping it with jerky movements.
The syringe inside it has been used and recapped.
But there’s an alcohol pad left right beneath it.
I swallow hard as I fish the tiny bottle from my pocket.
Why am I like this?
A tremble rolls its way down my entire body, my fingers uncoordinated, my eyes burning.
“No.”
Saying it aloud does nothing to deter me from uncapping the needle. Poking it into the bottle’s rubber top. Drawing some of the drug into the chamber.
Just one more.
I drop to the closed toilet lid and pull off my sock.
Just one.
It’ll be quick.
