Written by Dick Einstein
for a UT fiction class
Click. Gasp. I need to be in class in less than an hour. I flick on the light rushing into the bathroom, my face first catching my fuzzy vision through dilating eyes. My curls fall like vines below my ears before I fluff them up. Coming into focus, my eyes look foggy and dull from days of sloth. My smile is hidden behind a haze of dazing about with him. Just then, he rolls over in bed, so I shut the door.
Minutes later I’m ready to leave all this behind, if only for a few hours. Toast in my mouth, bag hanging from my elbow, I lock the door behind me, hoping he’ll get out to do something today.
Thud. Click. “Shit!” I snap awake, alone. “Stupid cunt,” I gasp, rubbing my throbbing head. “Olivia, what are you doing babe? Come back to bed!” Stumbling into the bathroom, I don’t trip over that sundress I love taking off of her, and wonder if maybe she’s finally tired of me. Noticing her makeup, I feel reassured that she hasn’t left me yet. I splash water on my face, and my eyes shut under the sun’s bright white light. Why does she always open these damn shades? I close them, light up a cigarette and wander into the kitchen, squinting at my phone. No calls all weekend, and how lovely it was! I don’t think I’ve ever been so lucky.
Sipping coffee, dragging my cigarette, I prepare a little rail to begin my day. Maybe this will get rid of this God-awful headache. My eyes water and my throat burns as I knock my head back under the force of a mighty snort, and the usual discomfort soon gives way to normality, or something like that.
Instead of down, I’m up and ready for breakfast. Orange juice, two fried eggs, bacon, toast and a bowl of yogurt and granola later, I’m rolling yet another cigarette and find my eyes have adjusted enough to enjoy the light of the balcony. The street below is crowded with people going about their day. I don’t recognize anyone, but then again, how should I when they all look like ants? I wonder what kinds of nonsense they’ll be getting into today, and I flick the butt over the rail into the world below before returning to safety.
It’s 9:04, and I still have nothing to do. Perfect… not that anyone would call me anyway. My best friend is my dealer, and he’s only interested in my money, just like anyone else. As long as I’m sitting, staring at this machine, I may as well ask the oracle what’s new. I check my e-mail, but the junk clutters me, so I decide to stumble; nope, nope… nope. News? War still, crime is up, and more corrupt politicians. I’ve always wondered why we call it new. The same shit’s always happening, and none of it good. What’s the point? I crawl back into bed, curl up and wonder when she’ll be back.
I like this painting, but don’t feel like it’s done. I’ve hit a wall, so I take a step outside for a smoke break. The air is crisp, and a breeze makes my hair swirl about my face as I make fire and take a deep breath. My lungs expand, and contract as I slowly exhale, and again, again, into infinity.
“Olivia,” his soft, cool voice snaps my attention away from my meditation, and his smile makes me blush. I’m not sure what to say and almost choke on my smoke.
“Hey Charlie,” I stammer and manage to continue, “How have you been?”
“Groovy, thanks. I graduate in a few weeks! How’s Eric?”
I look down at his feet, and I can tell he knows what I’m thinking. Peeking back up at his curious face, though, I think he’s actually oblivious, probably been too busy with life to notice. “Oh, he’s just great!” I lie.
“Glad to hear it! Of course, he didn’t take the death of his parents well; that’s why I ask…” he explains coldly. His bright eyes flicker with every kind of emotion imaginable, and I wonder what it is he’s getting at.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to my studio. I’ll be graduating soon as well! I’ve got so much to do before then though, it’s overwhelming. It was good to see you!” His eyes burn into the back of my head as I turn to go inside, running from the discomfort. Of course, he didn’t care to ask how I’m doing.
Back in the studio, that stupid painting just mocks me, so I decide to call it a day. I need to see if he’s okay. I’d bet he’s still asleep though. The ride back isn’t so long, but my mind is racing the entire time. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing, or why. It just sort of happens, and I’m home, sweating, tired and frantic. I wonder about my parents briefly, in anxiety, climbing the stairs up to the little cell we call home. There’s no need to rush, I think to myself but can’t quite convince my gut to settle down. That worry knot has become normal lately, especially at the apartment’s threshold, everyday, when I realize he’s still wasting away here.
I step over his shoes, smell bacon, but find nothing except a greasy pan and him in the fetal position, in bed, as expected. I make lunch and curl up on the balcony with a bowl, a good book and another smoke, hopelessly waiting for him to emerge from his stupor.
When I awake, I find my headache is worse than ever. I close my eyes again, but a family photo is seared into my eyelids, so I jump up, nearly stubbing my toe as I reach desperately for painkillers. Who am I kidding? These haven’t helped for years. I just wish I could go to sleep forever. If she’s back, I can try.
Her little smile wakes me up a bit, finding her enjoying the warmth of the cozy balcony. “What are you reading?”
“The Stranger; some French book. How did you sleep?” she replies, clearly forcing it.
“Okay, until I heard you slam the door on the way out this morning! My headaches are back…” I complain.
“Well, that’s not my fault! You’re the one who’s been greedy lately; you know how too much of that junk does you. You should try sharing more.”
“You’re always so busy; you hardly seem to want any. You’re better off without it anyway.”
“Don’t tell me what’s good for me. I’ll do what I like.”
“Okay, sorry, I’ll share if you want, but first, me.” He grabs the belt, a syringe, spoon, and his little vial. In minutes, he hands me the syringe with the beautiful, murky substance ready to go as he tightens the belt around his arm.
“I’ve never seen this much, Charlie. Are you sure?”
“I’ll do what I like. Trust me. That’s what we have the OD box for anyway.” He reassures me, exposing his vein like a fleshy, bruised fruit. His finger marks the spot, and I plunge in carefully, watching the brown liquid drain the color from his face. Losing his bright eyes as they sink into the ghost that was his face, my heart races wondering if we’ve made a mistake. He falls over, and I’m paralyzed.
When I can finally reach for the phone, I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. I can’t do it. I don’t know why he thought I would. I can’t because this might be my chance. The voice on the other end of the phone sounds faint and unreal, and my voice cracks as tears begin streaming down my face. I can’t stand it; I drop the phone and rush over to his cold body. I cry for a minute before packing my things.
And I’m gone, again, alone.
Baby Einstein signing off. Thanks for reading!
