The Cascading Waves of Caden Lee

00

CADEN LEE

Six months ago my life changed. For the better or worse, I'm not sure I'll ever know. Runny noses and ache-y muscles have engrained themselves into my daily routine. Insomnia steals my soul and leaves only a couple hours of sleep behind.

I have lived the same day for far too long.

The clock is ticking, it's loud, but with the shaking of my hands it seems to be a thousand times louder. The ringing in my head increases tenfold. What time is it? One glance at the clock mounted on the wall tells me theres fifteen minutes of class left.

I rest my head in my arms, the cool surface of the desk like ice to my flaming cheeks. I can feel sweat seep its way through my thin t-shirt. I don't want to feel this way anymore, but if theres anything i've learned over these past few months—it's that sometimes you don't have a choice.

The time passes in a blur, and when I least expect it, the bell rings and im hauling myself out of my chair and tossing my backpack over my right shoulder. The men's restroom is only a hallway away, perfect for my shaky limbs, so weak it feels as if im a baby taking it's first steps.

The next part is easy. Muscle memory. Ive done this too much to not know how to prepare my lines in a timely manner. The powder is white; the vinegar-like smell strong, sticking itself to my clothes and hair. It never leaves, but how many people know that heroin smells like vinegar?

I pour a pile of the powder onto the toilet paper dispenser, the only flat surface available in the stall. It's slightly difficult arranging the pile into a thin, long line without any of it falling off, but I manage.

When I snort the heroin through a rolled-up dollar bill I feel the effect immediately. The rush is intense, enough so that I have to sit down onto the toilet seat and rest my head in my hands.

But a few minutes pass, and when the initial rush is gone, it's not enough. I know I shouldn't do this. That I'm at school, that I could get caught, or overdose, but in this moment I don't care. I need something stronger.

So I stand back up, wobble a bit, but stand up nonetheless, and pick the baggy back up from where it was sitting, and pour some more onto the same spot. My nose will probably bleed again, but it's fine. Worth it.

This line is more messy, my shaky hands doing nothing to help the precision, but it'll work. Its all the same in the end. Heroin is heroin no matter how hard you try to act like it isn't. Just because I'm not shooting it doesn't mean it's okay, but in times like these, it's hard to believe its anything but. Because it makes me feel like things will be—even when I know they wont.

Not wanting to stomach that thought, I lean down, place the rolled-up bill in my right nostril and inhale. It's better than I could have ever asked for. Euphoric. Just the way things used to be.

Im not thinking clearly, so keeping the plastic-bag clutched in my hand isn't something I should do, but when I look back at it and notice the minuscule amount of white powder left in it, all I can think of is snorting the rest of it.

So I do.

And it feels great. At first, at least. I know it's been at least twenty minutes, and the buzzing of my phone in my pocket tells me that my absence hasn't gone unnoticed. But feeling this way has made it to where I really don't care.

But things start to go downhill. Where there was once euphoria is now replaced with a burning fire in my chest. It spreads throughout my body. Sweat coats my skin, nausea surges from my stomach and up my sore throat. I press a fist to my mouth in hopes of stopping the inevitable vomit.

But the taste of bile is strong on my tongue, and im gagging more by the minute, and with one last lurch im collapsing onto the cold, tiled floor and sticking my head over the toilet bowl. Vomit erupts from my mouth like a waterfall. It's gross and aggressive, water splashing onto my cheek.

This is wrong. Something is wrong. I've never had this happen to me before. Am I just being dramatic and this will pass over? I'm not sure.

But I can feel my heartbeat begin to slow. Irregular, almost. And despite the panic brewing on my mind it doesn't speed back up.

My clammy hands grip the toilet seat as another round of puke spews from my mouth. Im in a daze, almost. Drowsy. More so than I've ever been before.

I don't know when I decided to do it. When the fear of getting caught was overthrown by the fear of something actually being wrong. Of dying. I know people say that if you do drugs you're creating your own death sentence—but I don't want to die. I really don't.

So, before I know it, my phones in my hand and im unlocking it with weak fingers. I click on a contact. One that im not sure who's the owner of. I didn't bother to check.

It rings only for a second before the call's picked up and a voice thats unmistakably Scarlett answers the phone, "Cade?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Only gurgles. I think I hear her leaving the cafeteria to a quieter space so she can hear me, but I can't be sure.

"Caden? Are you okay?"

I finally find the strength to speak, "uhm," but she interrupts me.

"Where are you?"

My vision starts to blur. Panic brews in my gut. Is this really how I will die? In a bathroom stall collapsed against the floor?

"Caden? Seriously, is something wrong? Where are you?"

I only can speak one word before my eyes start to droop, "bathroom."

She may have gone looking for me, or called someone else, someone who can help, but my visions darkening and everything goes quiet before I can know.