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The door cracks open. I realize belatedly my hand’s around the handle. The light is bluish. Cold. And then I’ve got it open all the way. I can’t sort through bags and boxes fast enough. I spot it in the right-hand corner on the top shelf: just this little syringe, marked with a handwritten label. When I see it, I go so hot, and my head spins so hard.
> I’ve got Fentanyl.
Holy shit.
I curl my hand around the syringe. All the room’s dark, hazy edges sharpen. I can’t get my breath. My heart’s pounding too hard.
I could run. Bolt the door at my place, get it all set up just right. Really take my time with it.
Oh shit. I’m getting juiced up just thinking about it. But…I don’t head for the door. My whole body breaks out in a cold sweat, and the shaking gets so bad, my legs almost give way. I start to gulp back air because I don’t know what to do.
It’s Finley’s writing on the label.
I can’t take it if it’s hers. It’s not hers…but she mixed it. If I use here, I’ll never get clean. I can’t steal from Finley. I need it so fucking bad. If I fuck up, it doesn’t matter. I’m already a fuck-up. Put it back, it’s Finley’s. What would she do if she saw me? If I use, she can’t come over. I could do it when she’s sleeping. Would this be enough to get me fixed up? What’s the milligrams per milliliter? What if I get fixed and can’t remember our last night together?
I hear footsteps. My whole body flashes icy cold, then swelters. I can’t breathe. My pulse throbs in my eyes as a wave of shame envelops me. It’s so thick and dark, I can’t feel anything but decimated as it rises through me, filling me up while weighing me down, like lead.
And then she’s here. She’s right in front of me, and she’s the same, but I’m not. I am dead before her. I’m black matter and she’s pure light. I can’t move or speak or even think as she stops near me.
“Declan?”
How long till she sees it? I can’t put it back now. She’ll see it. She’s gonna know.
Something large and heavy moves atop me, pushing me down. I feel like that nightmare dream I used to have after hearing that Houdini story: I’m buried alive and I will never, ever get out.
“Declan?” She steps closer to me. I watch as her face morphs in concern. She reaches out. Her hand brushes my arm.
“Darling?” I realize I’m breathing loudly. “Are you all right?”
Reassure her, fuckface.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“Declan?” Her hand’s gentle around my arm, but I can’t stand the feel of it. I stagger back, and I can see her eyes pop open wider.
“Sailor…are you all right?”
I hold up a hand—the one that’s not holding her syringe. Fuck-up with the shaking hands, that’s who I’ll always be. I’m trying really hard to breathe right, but I can’t, and Finley won’t leave me alone.
Her hand is on my arm again. She needs to let go. She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t; she knows who I want to be, and I’m not him. I can’t do this.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Here…” She tries to wrap her arm around my waist, but I step away.
“What’s that? In your hand?”
I hear her let her breath out. I shut my eyes. But with them shut, I lose my balance. I can feel my shaking legs about to give out, so I crouch down. Then my knees are shaking, so I end up sitting on them—kneeling. I’ve got my hand cupped around the syringe. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to be here like this. I don’t want to be here. I see the gold lines, those waves. Why did I see those waves? What’s the point of getting brought back if I can’t do it? I can’t do it. I’m scared. I’ve never felt this scared before; I didn’t know before. I don’t think I can do this.
I’m shaking so bad. My teeth are chattering. Every time I go to inhale, I can’t, and I have to gasp to fill my lungs. I cover my face, or try to. My hand’s shaking, too.
“My darling Sailor. Is it empty?”
I lock my fingers around it.
“It’s all right. Just tell me what’s happened, and I can help you.”
