I was getting sloppy.
Shit.
Crushing the two remaining pills on the sink counter, I haphazardly snorted the powder, feeling the burn—especially from the pieces I hadn’t crushed finely enough. The sting forced tears from the corners of my eyes. Then came the rush, blasting through my veins, followed by that familiar warmth.
Ah…there it was.
That relaxing, euphoric feeling that made even the lowest of lows fade into something tolerable. I had become desperate for it—the blissful silence inside my muddied head. Blinking, I realized I was seated on the floor. I needed the high to taper off just a little before leaving to see Rachel. She would notice—she always did—and though I didn’t care what people thought, something about the way her expression drooped when she realized I was high always hit differently. It always cut through my buzz, and I couldn’t afford to lose that right now.
I exited the bathroom, stumbling slightly as my shoulder slammed into the doorframe. My apartment was large—stupidly large—so when I stepped out, I entered the hallway that led to the kitchen. I had blown my dad’s life insurance policy on this oversized, pointless waste of space. Instead I could’ve survived in some shithole tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, paying a fraction of the rent.
The kitchen was a disaster. Noodle bowls and coffee cups littered the counters, end tables—even the floor. They had claimed permanent residency. I should’ve felt embarrassed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
There wasn’t enough room in my mind for shame—not with everything else taking up space. I barely registered the mess anymore. Grabbing my worn leather crossbody bag, I made my way to the front door; a walking, dishevelled mess.
I should’ve brushed my hair—Rachel always noticed. She’d try to pretend she wasn’t looking, but I caught her almost every time. Her eyes would scan me, top to bottom, cataloguing every detail. It was impossible not to notice her analysing me.
Rachel wasn’t judging me, but there was no doubt she was noticing my decline. If I had friends, they would’ve noticed, too. But my life had been made by design. I wasn’t close to anyone for this reason. I didn’t want to have to answer to anyone. I didn’t want to feel like I was disappointing someone. I didn’t want to have to explain myself or be made to feel bad about my situation. Since I had moved out on my own, the loneliness had only emphasized my situation.
Before I received my life insurance payout—which had been held until I turned eighteen—I lived in the foster care system since I was seven. Survival had been the main focus throughout those years since I had nothing else. Once I moved out, I no longer had to try to survive—all I had to focus on was living.
Oddly enough, I was tired of living. I was tired of trying to stay afloat in this life. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness was crippling. And at some point I realized, this wasn’t living either.
Loneliness would’ve been an easy fix if meeting people and learning to trust them had been accessible to someone like me. But I couldn’t trust people anymore.
Trust was for people who didn’t know what it felt like to have it betrayed.
Walking out the front door, the August breeze struck my body like an assault. I closed my eyes and carried on down the sidewalk toward Rachel’s office. She was located six blocks fromme, in a six-story building on the very top floor. I didn’t love tall buildings or being that high up, but her office was designed so minimally—all neutrals and curved edges—that my comfort eventually evened out my thoughts, especially the more that I went.
I tucked my arms together, holding my chest tightly. From the perspective of the world around me, it was the ideal day—warm temperatures with a slight breeze to cut the humidity. For me, it only reminded me of sitting in that fucking hellhole with my mother. The place had been stifling from the lack of air conditioning, so when she passed out from the drugs, I couldn’t tell if she was dead or not. It left me vulnerable to any passerby slinking around while my mom couldn’t do anything to stop them.
Not that she would’ve, anyway.
Nowadays, I have a physical reaction to heat—a subconscious reminder of worse times. Now that I was physically out of those situations, all I had was the leftover trauma. I didn’t know what was worse anymore—being in those moments, or reliving them every day.
Back then, I had small bouts of hope. Hope that it would end, that I could escape, that something better was waiting for me. But now that I was on the other side, I knew differently.
I knew there never was hope.
Shaking my head, I searched somewhere inside myself for the high I’d had moments ago, wishing it would return. Maybe Rachel could distract me. I just needed to get there.
Four blocks to go.
I looked ahead to find others seemingly lost in their own worlds.
A woman jogged in her athletic wear—the poster child for health and discipline. A young man waited for a bus in a knock-off business suit, probably on his way to his first interview atsome fancy-ass law firm. A man sat slumped against a building, the last time he showered looking questionable.
I held myself closer as I pushed forward, my ratty, bleached-out hair tossing wildly in the breeze.
Up ahead, I spotted my destination. A slight wave of relief washed over me, knowing I wouldn’t have to be outside much longer. I could be inside—just for a little while—and then return to my apartment.
But first, I had something I needed to discuss with Rachel.
After working with her for the last couple of years, I knew this topic was going to be a difficult one for her to process.
But she was the only one qualified to hear it.
The only one who wasn’t supposed to try and change my mind.
