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Paranoia? Check.
“Are you?”
“No. If I was, do you think I’d be like this?”
Irritability? Check, check.This is gonna go down like a rat sandwich.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” I turn the key in my deadbolt and push the door open. She doesn’t want to trust me.
“Look, you and I both know you’re about fifteen minutes away from either shitting your pants, or puking up bile. I don’t want to deal with cleaning it up out here. Just come inside, and I’ll let you use my bathroom.”
She hesitates, but eventually shuffles into my apartment.Thank God.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
I point down the hall. “Middle door on the left.”
She heads toward the bathroom, and I quickly go to my bedroom to hide the roll of cash in my back pocket. I stuff it under my mattress, along the edge of the elastic pad and the fitted sheet. If she lifts the mattress, she won’t be able to see it. I change out of my bar attire and get into some comfy clothes. Then I grab four sets of pajamas for Anna,if that’s really her name. Four sets will get us started. I’ve never been so thankful to have a washer and dryer in my unit. After grabbing pajamas, I go to the linen closet in my hall and grab all of my towels.
As I predicted; I can hear the diarrhea from out here. She probably made it just in time. She flushes, and I knock on the door.
“I’m not a professional. We should have you looked at by a doctor.”
“No! I don’t need a doctor. If you call somebody, I’ll leave... And then I’ll come back to shit on your doorstep.”
She opens the door, and a wave of stink penetrates the hallway. My bathroom will need a deep cleaning tomorrow, thanks to the biological warfare that is her anus. Regardless of how I feel, I don’t let it show on my face. Letting her maintain a little dignity will go a long way. But I gotta get this girl in the shower, like yesterday.
I grab the first of many pairs of pajamas she will go through tonight and a couple of towels and enter the bathroom.
“What do you take?”
She scoffs at me.
“If you’re gonna be here, I need to know what I’m in for.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oxy.”
“Do you snort, shoot, or swallow?”
“Swallow. I’m not fucking stupid.”
I look up at the ceiling, when she follows my gaze, I place my hand under her chin so I can see up her nose. It’s red, raw, and looks fucking painful.
Apparently lying runs in the family.“When was your last hit?”
“Couple days ago.”
“How much do you usually take?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Sixty?”
It’s a relief. This is doable.
“That’s good. I know you feel like shit, but detoxing from one-twenties would feel a lot worse.”
“Oh good, that makes me feel so much better. Thanks.”
“Have you been tapering down?”
