The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 29

I saw Nicky every day until school started back. Then, only on subdued bus rides home after work where we sat in silence listening to fragments of other passengers' conversations. She and Keith split up. Their relationship was unable to sustain the weight of what occurred. It distressed me seeing her in pain, drifting like a lost soul when once she fizzed with infectious high spirits. To hear the hurt in her voice when others asked her what was wrong, and she tried to pretend everything was okay. I hoped college would offer her a new lease on life, but in truth, she dreaded being in the company of strangers and failed to muster any enthusiasm for her course.

Schooling didn't matter much to me, either. Textbooks filled with jargon that bore no relevance to my current existence. Geography, History, Maths, Language Studies and Economics. Inconsequential. A string of wasted hours, punctuated by lunch breaks. If Roley mentioned Nirvana once more, I would shoot myself. Although Keith and I remained on speaking terms, there was an undercurrent to our words that threatened to sweep us away in a flash. I went through the motions, each day indistinguishable from the previous one, a tired mechanical procession. Clockwork days passed in a smeared blur. Life's grindstone trundled on, systematically crushing my spirit.

I smoked weed on my own, got panic attacks, didn't care anymore. Numb to everyone and everything. My favourite comedy shows and movies drew the occasional laugh. I issued family and friends with monosyllabic answers when they attempted conversation.

All joy in life gone, my world monochrome, devoid of colour. Lost in a labyrinth of days, each one darker than the last. Breathing seemed a pointless exercise, done out of habit, than with any real desire. It hurt to be awake.

I couldn't comprehend how life could be so cruel. How could God allow such an outrage to befall an innocent like Nicky? There was no meaning to it. Live by the sword, die by the sword. That made sense. You do bad things, and bad things will happen to you. Karma. Explain the logic of what had happened to my friend? I have an uncle born with severe Downs Syndrome. Why? Millions in Africa starved. Why? Bosnian genocide. Why? This litany of Tragedies no rational Gold would permit.

There are no reasons.

This grand design, governed by randomness.

What was the point of it all?

School.

Eat.

Go to work.

A typical Friday evening at the drug distribution warehouse, staff milling about, minds focussed on the trip to the pub later. Probably why the returned order got overlooked and ended up in my aisle. The red tub sat there. I nearly tripped over it. Had to restrain my natural urge to aim a kick at the container. And that's when I noticed it, nestled among the numerous boxes of prescription pills. It seemed to glow like the suitcase in Pulp Fiction. I read -hadone on the partially visible label. Surmised it was, Methadone. As a rule, controlled substances are kept locked in a safe. Errors occur. No system is flawless.

Have you ever acted on impulse? Did something without a single rational thought? An action that made little sense to you even as you were doing it?

Before I was fully conscious of my actions, I tucked the bottle between my stomach and the waistband of my jeans. It was as though everything was happening by design. The baggy sweater I wore that serendipitously hid the protrusion—I hadn't intended wearing tonight. I had spilt gravy on my shirt as I wolfed down dinner, and grabbed the first item of clothing I came across. The added space in my waistband; attributable to losing a few pounds last month.

I headed straight for the staff room. Prepared with every step for someone to notice me. Somebody to stop me.

I hunkered down and slipped the brown bottle into the plastic carrier bag containing my lunch, waiting for the hand on my shoulder that would never come.

I carried on working, certain it would be only a matter of time before somebody caught me.

The shift ended, and we collected our coats and belongings. It would be now. My shifty demeanour was a dead give-away.

I picked up the carrier bag. The bottle clinked against the silver-plated spoon I used to eat my yoghurt. It sounded like the toll of a bell.

Nobody paid a blind bit of notice.

I straggled out the entrance, the plastic bag handle slick with perspiration, bidding goodnight to the supervisor in a disconcerting voice.

Nicky was absent, and Keith got a lift with Louise, so I sat on a bus with my stolen goods and sweat-drenched shirt.

When I arrived home, my mum was watching the news, and my brother and his girlfriend were out clubbing. I rushed upstairs to my room and stashed the bottle in the wardrobe underneath those white cotton pants. Lay down. Still uncertain what I would do. Still not quite believing what I'd done. A strange dream. Aaron in wonderland.

Aaron, the guy whose only previous attempt at larceny was stuffing two gummy bears in his mouth while filling the bag at the Pic-n-Mix counter. Aaron, who steadfastly refused all attempts his pals made to get him to try LSD, stole a Class A narcotic, a synthetic opioid, that drug beloved by tortured rock stars and artists throughout the ages.

To what end?

Probably nothing.

Aaron. Lacked the courage of his convictions.

Aaron. The wimp who had failed to save his friend from a fate she did nothing to deserve.

Aaron. The loser whose actions, or lack thereof, hurt his only true friends.

Aaron. Whose crippling insecurities drove the love of his life away.

Aaron. Bought cotton cargo pants from the Ladies department.

Aaron. The gay guy who preferred the female role.

Aaron. Not a man.

I climbed off the bed and opened the wardrobe door. Unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle to my lips. Almost gagged at the sickly taste. Could barely even do that right. Forced down a further swig.

I lay in darkness, facing the wall when my mum popped her head in to say 'goodnight.' My mother worked hard to put me through school. What would she think if she knew her son was a fag?

I swallowed another mouthful.

How much had I drunk?

I heard the crackling voice on my dad's walkie-talkie. Three in the morning. The time he came in for his hour lunch break. My father, who felt the cold steel of a shotgun pressed against his temple when he had walked in on a burglary. A proper man.

I grimaced and took a large gulp.

My world spun on its woozily constructed axis. I sat shaking at the edge of the bed, throwing up countless times in the metal wastepaper basket clutched between my trembling hands. The one with the decorative dark crimson oriental figures set against a black background. Cranes. A barefoot fisherman. Pagodas. Foot-bridge. All morphing together in an abstract blood-red blur.

My eyelids kept shutting.

I fought to stay awake.

Downstairs, the hall door shut.

On jellied legs, I negotiated the stairs. Only crashed against the wall twice. Maybe more, difficult to tell. Hard to concentrate.

I puked greenish-yellow watery sick into the toilet, beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

Stumbled into the living room and slipped a tape in the VHS. Drugstore Cowboy. With Matt Dillon. And William Burroughs. Apt.

Fingernails scratched my face, shoulders, waist, as though hopelessly trying to root out the gnawing feelings of frustration and sadness buried deep inside me.

The pictures on the screen became hard to follow. The garbled words made no sense.

Almost impossible to hold my eyes open.

Black.

Afloat on the Stygian river.

Painless.

Sinking.

Sinking.

Into the dark water.