You try your best to forget how weak you feel. The white powder seeming to reach for you just as eagerly as you reach for it and take it out of the shifty man's hand. It was already paid for. It was already yours to own. The moment it left his palm, he retreated and didn't look back at you, as if saying 'there is no choice left for you'. Or maybe that's what you try to convince yourself as you do the same, heading down the alleyway and back to the bus stop that leads home.
You let your eyes wonder out the window while you nervously check your pocket every few seconds just to make sure that it was still there. That you still had it. That no one had taken it in an attempt to keep you on the straight and narrow like you had promised three months ago.
It was just too hard. Every day became less and less about enjoyment and more and more about just getting through the next few hours without a bump. It became less and less about being healthy and sober and more and more about ignoring how dull it felt to not be high.
You make it home without trembling but that starts right after the lock to the door slides into place underneath your fingers. It takes you a moment before you're able to move and then your at the couch with the dirty, used handheld mirror being pulled out from underneath the couch cushions. You had told him that you threw it away with a smile but that was a lie. It was too hard, too scary, too- too wrong to throw it out. For a while, you would pull it out and remind yourself how fucked up you had been, but then it slowly began to convince you of the good parts of your addiction. Of how much you smiled when you used to look into it through the soft powdery filter it had after a hit.
You didn't allow yourself much time to doubt the situation. You had already chewed your fingernails to the quick and started to rip the skin around them in your nervousness.
The small bag was empty in mere minutes, trapped underneath the small razor that you had used to break up the small clumps in the cocaine. Your body relaxed into the high, feeling comfortable and less jittery and much more at home than you have felt in the few months you had 'gone straight' but it-...His face burned itself behind your eyelids. His hair always reminded you of the split second that a sunset turned so vibrant it almost blinded you and it framed his smile like it was the very source of the sun's brightness. You had promised him.
You don't remember dialing his number or even bringing out your phone. You had the mirror clutched so tightly in your hand in front of your face that you were absolutely sure it would very well break under the pressure. You watched as tears, hot angry and disappointed, rolled down your cheeks and nose. Where was the smile that the cocaine had promised you? Where was the happiness that it had teased and coaxed you with all of these months? Why was there only sadness and pain? Why were all of your problems still there?
His voice hit you like a trainwreck. Light. Loving. A soft breeze trying to spread through your leaves and make you feel loved. Instead it broke you apart inside, shredding you like brittle paper being pulled too tight and hit with a force much too strong. The apologies poured out of your lips like acid, burning but uncontrollable.
It took him four minutes to get from his place to yours. The key you had made him clicked the lock open with ease. His arms pulled you into his lap and he pulled the mirror from your grip as though you hadn't been holding onto it like it was a life raft. His lips were soft in your hair and his arms held you together as you fell apart, the apologies bubbling out past your unwanted and revolting high.
You tell him with ever bit of your hate directed inwards, you're sorry that you're always falling apart. He tells you, with the voice that haunts your dreams, that he's always going to be there to pick you up.