NO DOUBT [bwwm]

• 31 • The Truth

8 months ago

It was a warm June evening, the one when Ms Gilmore passed away.

It was a rather rainy June afternoon the one when I found out I had inherited fifty thousand dollars, around a week later.

I had planned to get away from Ricky a few weeks before. This time a day he should be at the Spot, or the buy-one-crackhead-get two-potheads-for-free warehouse as I like to call it. Smoking, drinking, sniffing, whatever he and those gang members would waste their days doing. Ever since he had been laid off at the manufactory in August, he had gone down a dangerous road. He was hurting himself and our relationship. If there still was one.

The inheritance was just the cherry on top. I was supposed to grab all my valuables and move as far away as possible. What's further than the opposite side of the country? Had I known, I would've moved to England.

I was coming back from a hard day at work. My last one, as I had already resigned.

"I've told that man to lock the door when he goes out, already," I grumbled when my key turned to lock the door instead of unlocking it. We didn't live in a safe neighbourhood, so naturally, I was scared we'd get robbed someday.

As soon as I came in everything felt out of place.

He was home. His shoes were exactly where they were the same morning. He was not out today. My plan was already going south. "Ricky?" I called his name out hoping he wouldn't answer back. Maybe he wore different shoes today.

He didn't answer. But I wasn't convinced. I walked to the kitchen. Deserted. I found a few empty beer cans laying around the sink. I sighed. Should I clean up... or? No this boy better come and do it himself.

"Ricky!" I insisted but was only rewarded with silence. I slowly took steps towards the living room. There he was sitting on the couch with the TV on. I rolled my eyes, "Why don't you answer when I call y-"

His eyes were closed. His muscles seemed completely relaxed as the remote was an inch away from falling from his flacid hand. He was probably asleep, right...?

On his right arm were a few red spots, syringe marks. On the floor next to him were the instruments responsible of those marks. Completely emptied, they laid on our carpet.

I knew he snorted stuff, but I would've never thought he did hard drugs. Or that I'd found myself in this position. I shook him, lightly at first. Called his name a couple times, shook him more roughly. No response. He was pale, his mouth dry and slightly open. I observed his relaxed features and just then noticed how skinny he was, how his face tattoos stood out on his almost white skin. How hollow his cheeks were. Guilt filled me as I realized how much I'd given up on him these last few months.