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we have a date with the underground, chapter 44
by Turtle Jones
How did it get like this?
I mean, I know how it got like this, but not really. Somewhere in there I missed a chapter in the book but that didn't surprise me. For the last ten years I had lived my life in a fog, so why would this be any different? Nothing I did surprised me anymore. Nothing anyone told me was a shock. What I did and what I saw seemed normal to me. Living like I did was what I did. Hell, for all I knew, it was what everyone did. All my friends did it. The ones that weren't upstate or all dead did anyways. This was the way it is and it was the way it always was.
Why was this different then?
I gazed at all the sharp things in the bathroom. The razors, the edges of tables, broken mirrors and sharp glass. Everything in that bathroom could stop my pain. Anything if used the right way could end this. Why the hell should I go on anyways? I really had nothing in front of me. My life had pretty much run it course. For all I cared, that was it. My life had ended a few days ago. For some reason, doctors had pulled me back. I couldn't even kill myself right.
What had happened a few days ago? I was in a Buick trying to OD underneath an overpass. When I thought that wasn't good enough, I slashed open my wrists and pounded some more sleeping pills chased by a bottle of gin. Christ. Gin. I hated Gin, but I made myself buy it to punish myself in my last few hours. I needed to be alone for this. Too many cars. I wanted to be forgotten. I hid behind a dumpster in a seedy part of town and watched the blood turn my Levi jacket red. Not red. More like brown. Dripping down my arm making my arms wet like water. Drips. Sleep. Then cops. Then peace. This was it. They were too late. I had got out.
I thought I did.
Now I was just watching the steam from the shower. My left leg was the only sturdy one I had, so it had to do the walking. I picked my left leg up to move it out of the water. I remember it was my left leg. I thanked my leg for helping me while cursing at the other one for failing me. It was always my left leg that kept strong during the shit. The pins holding it together told me it had seen a lot and wanted more. My gaze peered over the tattoos on my leg as my mind remembered when and why I got them. What was the reason I have these on me. Nothing really made much sense to me. Just running my finger over my skin brought back thoughts of the last years of my life. Funny how tattoos can do that to you. A lifetime memory of one drunk night. Another memory of waking up in the street. That one was done somewhere in LA. Just more stories. Memories of which I wanted to go away.
I was sick of the self pity my brain was feeding me and alcohol did nothing but make it worse. It had been doing that for the last few years so why should it stop now? It didn't stop me from reaching for the bottle of vodka sitting near the sink. Nothing could stop me from that.
Even knowing where it would put me in my head didn't seem to phase me at all. The toothbrush on my tongue made me gag each time it ran up and down of it. Christ. How long had it been since I had eaten? It must have been up to four days now. If I looked straight up into the air while drinking, my mind would wander to another place and I could calm the gag reflex. Sometimes it would work. Sometimes it wouldn't. I just remembered that if I did throw up, my body would stop heaving enough to get two or three big gulps of vodka down. I could sneak the vodka in without my body knowing it. My stomach would stop hurting and I could go back into my room.
But this wasn't my room I was looking at. It was somewhere else. Back in the somewhat normal life, I guess. Things were clean and bright. I guess I got away somewhere. But where? I was used to getting away when things got this bad, but this was different. Where was my dog? Where was my wallet? This wasn't my get away spot. This was mom's house. Totally naked, covered in blood and stitches, a wave of shame hit me. I don't feel shame, usually. Never really have, but this time it had hit me bad. I was sitting at my mother's house reeking like booze and chemicals. Detoxing with stitches hanging out of my wrists, I remembered being picked up behind a dumpster by the police. Something about me being a danger to myself. Librium and shaking off heads and hands. Then mom's house. Having a few pills left and a half bottle of vodka stuffed in my bag before I left my own home for the very last time.
"Just need to get away..."
Something happened in those last days. I still can only put together a few pieces and maybe it is really better that I forget what happened.
"How did this happen..."
My only thought.
No one was around me anymore. None of my friends. I picked though all the people I lost in my life and tried to put a blame on someone. Something had to do this to me. It couldn't be me. Not me. I was just having fun. I always had fun. Cause I always did.
Another heave hit me as I lost another gulp of vodka. It splashed on my leg as I stared at it drip into the carpet.
The bottle was almost empty.
This was it.
It was all over now.
The last of the vodka dripped down my throat. The last of the pills followed them down. I pulled up a bandage to cover my wrists. Put on my Levi jacket. Lighter shaking in my hand as I fired up another butt and walked out the door to never look back.
"Fucking crazy life...."
Part of me had died the other day in the alleyway. Behind that dumpster, some part of me did die.
I just had to figure out what part it was.