𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟐𝟑 | 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘

𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 one place I feel I can escape.

I spent the better half of my hours at home, mulling over the consecutive messes I've made in forfeiture of my one desire, and in the face of my own mistakes. I'd picked up my cart, rearranged my wall decorations, cleaned the ashes from the fireplace, and relit the flames.

I'd done everything I could to return my amnesty back to normal—to create an equal balance or some impression of homeostasis, but it has not worked. Because I'm sitting here, with a glass of Bourbon in my hand, staring at little white lines, wondering when my solace became a person.

My fingers drum against the mahogany desk hard enough that the pens sitting nearby rattle lightly. I rub a hand over my chin and sigh. It's only been a few hours since I returned home since I turned and walked away, even when all I wanted to do was stay—and yet, these few hours of contemplation might as well be my ruination.

It is all I can think about.

Did I do the right thing?

Did I overreact?

Did I lose what I've sought for years over something thoughtless?

My hair flops into my vision as I relax in my chair. My eyes never leave the metal plate in front of me, or the drugs I'd cut up with my black AMEX card. I don't care for the liquor, as I've never drunk enough of it to feel the effects, but I can't stop myself from reaching into my wallet and pulling out the first bill the tips of my fingers feel.

My gut tells me to do this, that we are addicts.

My mind tells me that I've been doing good—that I went through it, that I survived it, that I have defied most of the odds against this thing I've been doing for years now.

And while I want to listen to my brain, I want to be rational, I have spent the better half of the last three months observing it's wants, and still, I find myself in the depths of my own dug hole.

So, against my better judgment, against my justification, I roll up the bill and put it to the cocaine. I put my nose to the other side and do what I do best—I slide the money across the metal pan and snort the thickest line of the bunch.

I exhale, and instantly, I feel a rush of adrenaline hit me in the center of my chest. My pulse thrums against my neck as I rest against the leather of my chair. A loopy feeling, sort of like falling in love, or being drunk on a moment, floats over the fronts of my eyes, and I feel the tiniest little smile grace the curves of my lips.

But it barely lasts.            

Because my mind is so determined to undermine me, to override whatever this pity party I am throwing, that my high hits me like a slap to the face—like the way she had when she'd called me out on my bullshit and I'd just thrown it back at her. My high doesn't alleviate the empty place where she decided to reside in my residence but rather heightens the anxiety of not having her around.