Scars and Surprises
“Can you at least puke in the bowl!” I wipe my foot off with a wet towel.
Yup, this is my life.
“I’m sorry.” Sean hurls violently into the toilet bowl. He’s suffering somewhere between the fifth and sixth circle of hell. Detoxing from heroin sucks. How do I know this? It isn’t our first time at this rodeo either.
He’s butt-naked, pale, and shivering. He’s been puking and pooping furiously for the last three days. And when he’s not doing that, he’s complaining of body aches and restless legs. All symptoms of withdrawal.
I run a hot bath as he empties the contents of his stomach. Not that there’s much left. He’s brutally dry heaving now.
The first time I saw Sean go through withdrawal, I thought he was dying. I called 911. I was seventeen years old and had just come home from a night of clubbing in New York City. He was sprawled out on the bathroom floor convulsing. At least that’s what I thought; turns out he was just so cold he was shuddering.
Once the doctors assured me he wasn’t dying, I received my first lesson in drug addiction and withdrawal.
The nurses gave me pamphlets on what could be done to make him comfortable. Turns out hot baths, warm blankets, and some Valium are just about it. Other than that, the severities of the symptoms are just something the user has to endure. And they are severe. After that night, I never touched drugs again. I used to like to pop some X every once in a while when hanging out in the city. Now, just the thought of drugs makes me ill. Turns my stomach, literally.
I help Sean up when he’s finished puking — for the moment — and place him into the bath. He moans and groans as he lays down in the hot water.
“Think you can hold down some Valium?” I ask. “It will take the edge off and help you sleep.”
“Maybe.” He grimaces. I want to feel sorry for him, and on some level, I do. On another, the stupid motherfucker did it to himself.
“Open up,” I tell him, and drop two pills into his mouth. I don’t give him water. I don’t want to set off his stomach again. Hopefully he can keep the pills down long enough for them to work.
I sit with Sean as he soaks in the tub. His face is tight with the misery he’s going through.
“How’s your girl?” he rasps with his eyes closed.
I don’t answer. I don’t want to talk about it, or her. I’ve been avoiding Alana since Saturday night. Not only have I spent the last few days with Sean in withdrawal hell, my soul has been silently bleeding ever since I saw her with that other guy.
Sean opens his eyes, and I just stare back at him blankly.
“Is there a problem, bro?”
“Nope.” I drop my head. “I just don’t think that’s going to work out.”
He grunts. “She’s a stupid slut if she doesn’t want you.”
I snap my head up. “Sean—”
“What?” He doesn’t give me a chance to finish my sentence.
It makes me wonder if he’s beginning to feel better. “If she’s fucking around, don’t waste your time.”
I think that was Sean’s attempt at brotherly advice.
I sigh. “I just think we’re too different.” That’s about the extent I’m talking about it. And isn’t it ironic that he used the term “fucking around”, even if it’s not how he meant it.
“That sucks.” He inhales a heavy breath, and his arms loosen around his body. I think the Valium is starting to kick in.
I pull Sean out of the bath and wrap him up in a towel. I just about manage to get him into a pair of sweats and a hoodie before he’s knocked out for the count.
Finally, for the first time in three days, he’s sleeping peacefully. I drop down onto my bed, exhausted, and try to relax. The calm doesn’t last long. My phone beeps. I know who it is. She’s been texting me tirelessly. I guess I can’t blame her. If she was ignoring me, I’d be a stark-raving lunatic. I read the text forlornly:
Ryan, this is the last text I’m going to send you. I don’t know what I did, or what’s going on, but I get the message loud and clear.
I tossmy phone across the room and groan. This is so fucking difficult and painful and agonizing. I don’t know what to do. I want to see her, and I don’t. I also get the message loud and clear. She isn’t going to chase me. Nope. I wouldn’t expect her to either. That’s not Alana’s style. She left a line of communication open, and I ignored it. So she’s done.