Wait for Me

I roll ash between finger and thumb, attempting to pick up the perfect cylinder left in place of my forgotten cigarette. But it disintegrates at my touch, leaving black soot on my fingertips. I regard my hands carefully, as I continue rubbing thumbs against each finger in turn, double checking. But it's exactly what I feared...the long fingers of both hands are weirdly numb, and even though I can move them normally, I have the disturbing mental image of my mother slicing hot dogs with a butterknife and dropping the pieces into the macaroni and cheese.

I'm sitting on my bathroom floor again, it's 5:00AM on a Monday, first week of November. I look up, spotting myself in the full length mirror, yesterday's eyeliner smeared and smudged from where I'd swiped at my eyes earlier. Hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to tickle against my neck, and I have to look away from my reflection which sickens me. Up all night, depressed, drunk, exhausted, strung out, high as a kite, rode rough and put away wet...it doesn't matter... my reflection continues to taunt me with the appearance of an attractive, competent woman. I snort sardonically at the thought and look away, afraid to make eye contact with the mirror me. Afraid to be confronted with the truth in my own lifeless eyes.

The tears are gone now, dried up with the absence of sadness, anger and even happiness. A blessing? Maybe. I'm numb, from tips of fingers, to tips of toes, to scalp, all the way through the cold, heavy lump that used to be my heart. Even the hateful echoes of regret and insecurity which used to play on a continual loop through my mind have at last gone quiet.

Surprisingly, I hate it... it makes me uneasy. I've been chasing the numb for so many years... thinking this was what I wanted, every puff toked, every line snorted, every single bottle and bong rip and pill were all bringing me to that perfect utopia, where life doesn't hurt and love isn't crushed by indifference. I'm fully aware of the irony - totally sober, I have finally achieved complete desensitized detachment, after all these years of addiction and obsession. And now that I'm finally numb, all I want is to feel something. Anything that will convince me that my body is more than a shell carrying a dead soulless wretch.

I take the still burning cigarette from the ashtray then and carefully grind it out on the soft, smooth skin of my thigh. The sizzle is like a lullaby as the fire is extinguished, the stench of burning skin, the white hot fire that opens a hole on my leg are welcomed by my sharp intake of breath. I exhale in a relieved and satisfied sigh, because I FEEL, dear Lord, I FEEL pain, that means I am still here and I'm still human and feeling something is better than nothing, so I'm winning, triumphant again. My throbbing pulse can be seen on the edges of the burn, and it's screaming in protest at the willful destruction of perfectly good skin, but still....it's my favorite pain. The best pain is the kind that I inflict on myself, that I relish and wrap up in, I cherish and hold it closely and breathe in deep it's scent and wring every last drop of pleasure, and the pleasure outweighs the pain every time. Every time, the pain brings the pleasure in alternating waves that no one gives me as good as I give myself. The adrenaline rush is my latest drug of choice, and it's as addictive as every other high I've chased and cherished above all else in my life.

It's 6:00AM now and my right hand is steady as it carves long, straight lines in a row down the length of my left forearm with my favorite razor knife. Bloody paper towels on the floor are proof of my humanity. I am dead inside, yet the dead don't bleed, and the solid proof of my existence is running down my arm in flowing streams that look like the fancy red ribbons I once wore in my hair.

6:05AM and my cell phone buzzes and my brow furrows at the text from my Number One. "I'm going back to prison," it says and I blink in confusion, first at the bad news and second at the time. Number One never texts me before 9pm. Curiosity wins and I reply "What happened?"

Number One and I have been screwing for 5 months now. He's probably the most honest relationship I currently have, he knows I refer to him by a number and that there are others. I am also aware I'm not the only woman in his life. He likes the way I never ask to sleep over, I like the way he never tries to bullshit me with false concern or unnecessary lying. We hook up once a week or so, I go to his place where he provides a thoroughly satisfying distraction for 2-3 hours at a time. It's no surprise we've become friends, that's what happens when it's 2AM and the town is asleep, but he and I are smoking cigarettes on the patio under the vast desert sky. Together, yet alone, burdened with so much guilt and ugliness inside us that it's no wonder the sex is phenomenal. He knows that to silence my inner turmoil, he has to pound into me with enough force to flatten every demon in Hell. It works well that his own demons also quiet temporarily when he's buried inside me, my legs around his waist, hot breath on his neck gasping my approval. And on some of those nights, in a drunken haze or post-coital fog... somehow I've learned many of his darkest secrets and given him a few of my own in return.

When I met him, he was 4 days free after serving 3 years. At 19 years old, he'd been drunk behind the wheel and when he wrecked his truck, his best friend was dead. One millisecond, one bad choice, one wrong decision and two families were changed forever. So many lives blown apart in an instant. He's 23 years old now, consumed by shame and remorse and regret, leaving his soul blacker than any I've ever known, including my own. And it's a sick thing, but I believe it was the first time I caught a glimpse of his darkest demons that I opened my heart to him a tiny bit. There's something beautifully tragic in his pain, or maybe my fucked up mind just sees brokenness and hurt and finds it irresistible.

And now it's 6:07AM on a Monday in November and I'm reading his text that he'd been arrested on Saturday night, charged a Drunk In Public, which bored cops in this small town like to give out to people walking home when the bars close. Which seems like entrapment in a way, drive or walk, you may be arrested after the bar. Nevertheless, the law is the law, and his parole agreement carries a condition that he must not be arrested or consume alcohol, otherwise parole will be revoked and he'll be sent back to prison to serve the remaining 5 years of his sentence.

I can feel the desperation between his words as the messages fly back and forth. He's terrified to go back and I don't blame him. I'm saddened again at the whole situation. I've gotten to know his demons, they've had him in a chokehold since the accident that altered the path of so many lives, and they'll torment him far more than any prison sentence ever could. Already serving 3 years by age 23 seems like enough punishment to me, and I tell him so. He asks if I'd feel the same if it was my son who'd lost his life and I can't answer, because I don't lie to my Number One and I honestly don't know.

Texting:

I'm not going back - #1

They won't send you back, they can't! - me

They can and they will - #1

Oh God, I hope not! - me

I fucked up again, I gotta pay - #1

It's unfair, you've paid enough - me

I'm not going back, for real - #1

Wanna run away to Tahiti with me? - me

Nah. I'm gonna kill myself. - #1

My eyes widen and my heart begins racing, I can feel my blood pressure rise as it rushes through my veins like river rapids. My skin is icy cold fire, it is suddenly tingling, hair standing at attention, nerve endings awakened, opened up like blooming flowers waiting to be pollenated. Suddenly, the self harm, the pain is nothing, the blood still making its way down my forearm is meaningless, and the numb detachment is wiped away in those 4 life altering words.

Are you serious? - me

Yeah - #1

What about your family? - me

All I do is hurt them - #1

I don't know what to say. - me

Say goodbye, I guess - #1

I don't want to. When you gonna do this? - me

I don't know. Today. Tomorrow. -#1

How? - me

Why the questions? You gonna call the cops? - #1

I don't call cops, you know that - me

Then what? Gonna talk me out of it? - #1

Could I talk you out of it? - me

Nah. - #1

Well then I have one last request - me

Damn, girl. You're insatiable! - #1

Well, you should fuck me senseless at least one more time. But that's not my request. -me

I'm listening. - #1

Wait for me. - me

Wait for you, what? Huh? #1

I've been sitting here for 2 hours cutting myself. Fuck it. I'm over it. I tried and failed before. So wait for me. Don't kill yourself until I get there. Let's do it together.

Two minutes pass and I feel like a fool for revealing too much of my own black soul. Then my phone buzzes again and he's asking now if I'm serious and what about my son and I'm crying with the certainty that I've damaged my son beyond repair and perhaps my absence from his life would actually be healthier for him. Lord knows I've been failing miserably at motherhood for 16 years now. And I tell him yes, I'm absolutely serious, let's do it together, it'll be easier together and as I'm typing my racing heart slows, a calm settles over my whole body and I'm feeling content with the decision to end my broken life with this broken boy.

He tells me to come over around 8, a bit earlier than my usual visiting time, and I reply giddily, feeling like I'd been asked to prom by the football captain. And all day long, he's on my mind. All day long I'm back and forth, delicious anticipation mixing with cold fear, meanwhile the hunger for pain gnaws at me, but I don't pick up any sharp objects, I'm holding off, an addict delaying my next fix knowing it could be the last and best high of my life.

And when I get off work I go home and clean my room and straighten up my apartment. I prepare for our suicide pact with perfect makeup, hair curled becomingly, and an outfit I know he'll appreciate. I kiss my son goodbye, reminding him how much I love him and I head to Number One's house.

Pulling in the drive, parking my car, still giddy with breathless anticipation. The front door opens as I approach, he's there, the light behind him turns his body into a dark silhouette. With his chiseled chest and abs clearly delineated, veins popping out of forearms, and muscles rippling under smoothly perfect skin covered in tattoos, he makes me think of a dark angel, one of God's chosen who somehow managed to tumble and fall all the way to Hell.

Number One reaches towards me, his hand cups the back of my neck as he draws me near for a kiss, and I realize Hell suits this boy better than Heaven ever could. His tongue slips in between my lips as he lets me know Hell is much more fun anyway. I step over the threshold, and I'm pinned against the wall, his hands and lips running over my face and neck. My hands cup his face and find moisture where the tears are falling silently, and I lean forward to kiss them away. He reaches around me and then the front door is shut and locked. And we're alone, him and I, celebrating the damaged portions of ourselves that brought us together, falling headlong into the white hot lust that shines brighter than the blackness in both our souls combined.

Hand in hand, I follow him into the bedroom.