Sex and Candy by DerivedBetter Best Served Cold writing prompt entry |
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Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong language. Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong sexual content. "The car hit the passenger side at sixty miles an hour. My air bag deployed immediately, collapsing a lung, breaking my nose and several ribs. I lost consciousness. I came to, seconds later, to see my wife dead beside me. They say she died quickly; didn't feel a thing, but my last memory is of her twisted body and shards of glass caught in the strands of her long, blonde hair. That's why I'm sober today. My rock bottom. I was floating on morphine and drunk on tequila. She was trying to tell me to watch where I was going; I wasn't listening. That's my cross to bear. Thank you for letting me share." His voice cracks and shudders over the last few words. I get it. We've all lost something. Our innocence. Our youth. Our families. It's all the same. Addiction is a non-discriminatory life ruiner. We give the quiet applause expected of us. He steps down and lifts both hands toward his face to wipe away the slow-rolling tears. He's not handsome; Probably nearing forty, but this is only his second time here and the weight of his loss and depth of his guilt lends greatly to his potential fuckability. I wonder if he knows this. It's not uncommon to meet people here who are looking for more than a sympathetic ear. Take me for instance. I don't speak at meetings. I did, back in the day. Now I just listen. If I find someone interesting, I'll strike up a conversation near the coffee and donuts. I like to share my shit in private. To me, the one on one time is more powerful, more cathartic and you just learn a helluva lot more about them. "That was a powerful story," I say. "Cammie, by the way." I extend my hand. He takes it haltingly with a melancholy smile. "Kevin," he says. "Thanks, it's a hard one to tell. That's the first time I ever said it out loud, in front of a crowd." I'm not so sure I believe this. It feels like he's done it before. The story was too practiced, with just the right amount of cracking, shuddering, and tears at the end, but I let it slide. We all have our agendas. As we talk, the room starts to empty. "You want to get some coffee?" He says. "We got coffee right here." He doesn't know how to respond to that one. I let him off the hook, for now. "We could just go to my place." That's how we end up here, in my cheap-ass rent it by the week hotel room, baring our souls. "I'm not going to lie, it's tough. The meetings help. Hearing other junkies talk about their problems and their shitty lives, so similar to my own, reminds me that I'm not alone. My life isn't so bad. I'm thirty and haven't popped out any illegitimate kids. I've got a decent job as a receptionist at a dental clinic. I still clean up pretty nice or so they say. I've been sober for five years." I look at him to make sure he's listening. He stares back, giving me his full concentration. Such a gentleman. I continue. "I have my bad days. Sometimes it eats at me from the inside out; a scratching beast clawing its way free. Other times, its a dull ache. A low-grade hangover there to remind me of the mistakes I can't take back and the guilt weighing on my conscience. Anchoring me to this same shitty spot in life. I've been hooked since fifteen. My first hit was free and I didn't look back for a long time. I figure, I owe you for that." Is he finally picking up what I'm putting down? I bet the beast is scrabbling and scratching at his guts right now. I wonder if he remembers who gave him his first hit. With his arms strapped to the bed and mouth stuffed with a crusty rag, his only choice is to listen ... and watch. It wasn't hard getting the 30ml vials of morphine sulfate from the office. Hell, they even trust me to lock the place up. Ten vials should do. While tying off his arm, I keep on talking. "Remember that? Giving that fifteen year-old girl her first bump. Don't you recognize me? Maybe this will jog your memory." "Not quite what you had in mind when you strapped in, huh?" His veins are prominent from struggling with the straps. The needle slides in; the plunger goes down and he blooms right in front of me -- pupils dilate, struggles cease, breathing slows. Let's see you put yourself back together now. "The first ten are free," I say. Gotta make it stick. "Payback's a Bitch."
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