When people don't know how to make a decision, sometimes they flip a coin.
Down here in the Gutter, we like to handle our business differently.
Down here in the Gutter, we like to handle our business differently.
Her or the Drugs by Garrett Box
 |
 |
It was her or the drugs. I couldn’t tell them apart. She was the catalyst and they were
the flames. We met in an off-chance way, like someone meets a stray bullet.
She pretended to be lost and I pretended I knew the way. Before I knew it,
one thing led to another; a mesh of sex, drugs, and her—always her—the core of my addiction, the center to my soul. But souls have a bad
way of turning rotten from the inside out.
She was
bleach and I was ammonia and together . . . we were toxic.
She stuck me with an ultimatum, like a dagger in my heart. It wasn’t long before I
got high again, this time without her. I needed time to think. I needed time to not think.
I had my drug
dealer on speed-dial. I'd met her through a friend of a friend. Whenever we
needed something, the dealer was just a phone call away. What started out as fun quickly became a habit, and the dealer went from patron saint to doctor. We
needed drugs to get well and I needed them now more than ever.
She slipped into rehab while I staved off the sickness. I tried to keep the needle
to a minimum while she spent her days speaking to councilors and support groups. Twelve steps to
get well. A thirteenth to leave me.
It needed
to come to an end, but I was in too deep. You have to want to quit, they said, but I
couldn’t quit the drugs anymore than I could quit her. Both were keeping me
alive and both were killing me.
We fought
constantly about the little things and never about the big things. Toothpaste caps and toilet seat lids. If I left
the milk out, she would unload on me. If she were to leave me, I knew she'd slip out
the front door with nary a word.
Only when I was high could I think clearly. Then it hit me, like the sinister
smile on death himself: it was her or the drugs. I couldn’t chose which one;
so I’d decided to let fate decide. The same fate that led me into her arms; the
same fate that led the needle into my veins.
She'd just
gotten out of rehab and wanted to talk. I was all out dope and it wouldn't be long before
the sickness set in. The whole day I kept my phone in my hand, the finger on
the dial button until I had the nerve to make my last two calls. One to the dealer, and one to her.
“Come over.
I’ll be home.”
I turned on
the oven and left the gas going. I smelled the vapors filling up my dark
apartment. I rigged an old zipper lighter to the front door so the flint strike and ignite the gas the moment either woman walked in. It was going to be her or the drugs. My fate was sealed the moment I met eyes on her. There's no getting out alive.
***
Now I feel the
sickness set in while the gas numbs my senses. My vision blurs, but I
still listen for the front door. It’s strange, between the gas and the igniter;
I have this feeling nothing will happen when she opens that door. The spark will fail and I’ll
tell her it was my mistake, that I was careless and she’ll insist it would
be like the way it was; bleach, ammonia and all.
A key fits
into the lock and the knob turns. There’s a slight hesitation and then the door opens. A
figure stands there. Then a flicker forms a spark. It’s too dark to see her
face.
The room
ignites into a blaze of rage. It’s either her or the drugs and I couldn’t tell the
difference.
