Is It Ever Enough?

Chapter 57

Maya rolls out of bed with a sharp

Thud

Slamming shoulder first onto the hardwood of her living room, fresh off a bender and slumber fueled with nightmares.

She sits up quickly, attempting to stumble fully onto her feet. She crashes back down to her knee and clutches her side. Her hands squeeze her belly, her breath staggered as a roaring, ear splitting pain shoots through the upper right side of her abdomen and out the other.

She winces, her eyes screwed shut as she takes a few centering breaths, opening her eyes and allowing the world to come into focus. She casts her eyes around her apartment, finding her clothes from the night before scattered about among the beer and whiskey bottles.

A few sharp breaths and she's back on her feet and walking into her bedroom and over to her dresser, smiling down to see a few orange lines still intact on the surface, a present from past Maya, if you will. She lowers her head and takes them both, raising her head and tipping it back in pure ecstasy as the adderall courses through her veins, robbing her body of the groggy, disheveled state it was in, the pain in her side no longer present.

Her eyes cast over her reflection in the mirror, snidely chuckling at the frayed edges of her morning bedhead, the dark circles that rimmed her eyes and the red ring around her irritated nostrils; rubbed raw by the drugs she was shoving up them.

She sniffs her runny nose clear before turning and stumbling over the pants discarded at her feet, tripping and slamming into the bedside table, rattling the empty beer bottles scattered all over it, every single one emptied.

It had been days since she cleaned up around her apartment, days since she had eaten a meal or followed a routine outside of blacking out and passing out. She managed to keep the drinking to an at home activity, often getting blitzed by herself at home and blasting records, breaking bottles against the wall and railing lines all night long, manically lost in the slew of hatred and disappointment flying in her head.

Maya felt hot, and sticky. She didn't recognize herself, catching her reflection made her wince. She was in the midst of a week long bender, barely scraping by at work. Equal parts shame and adderall swirling to create a fever that caused her lower back to perspire and all moisture to leave her mouth.

She wasn't quite causing suspicion yet, as she did have half the mind to put make up before leaving the apartment every day, hiding the blemishes to her face and wearing long sleeves under her uniform in an attempt to hide her skinny, gaunt figure.

Having the sheets stripped felt like a great start to her day, and her body's natural clock agreed, smiling as she glanced at the clock displaying a bright and bold 5:30am. As she turns her body and takes a step toward the bathroom, another shooting pain rips through her belly, knocking the wind out of her sails and crumpling her in a pile on the floor. She doubles over in pain, both hands clutching desperately at her abdomen.

The white hot pain blurred her vision as she crawled toward the counter, clutching its edge and using it as an aide to get to her feet. She immediately grabs the bottle of whiskey, snagging a couple of pulls before tucking it in the bend of her arms and stumbling off toward the shower.

After scrubbing the burgeoning hangover off of her feverish skin, Maya went about her normal routine of flooding her belly with cocktails, equal parts narcotics and whiskey, no sign of food in sight.

She steps out of her apartment, ready to head for her usual pre-shift routine of visiting Henry. The fourth of July had come and gone, the smell of phosphorus and sulfate still lingering above Seattle in the early morning hours. The sun had risen, and Maya felt the heat beginning to sink into the city, sweat pooling on her lower back, the drugs coursing in her veins doing little to help as she embarks for the hospital.