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HAVOC

I had a girlfriend in high school whose mother used to tell us there was no such thing as a drug. Everything was fine as long as you did it in ‘ moderation, moderation, moderation.’ I can hear her chanting through their lavish living room, the overfilled glass of pinot Grigio spilling over her hand as she lectured us about taking Jell-O shots in the bathroom.

Moderation flies out the window like cigarette smoke these days; I wonder what she’d say now. At this point, the ritual is so deeply ingrained in me, almost like muscle memory, that every cell in my body waits for it. My new habit. Habit. A word I’ve spent my entire life trying to cultivate, to embody in the healthiest way possible but have never been able to form a positive connotation with.

Habit.

Like folding clothes fresh out of the dryer, brushing teeth, or even a daily coffee. But those aren’t the ones I can form or conquer.

No. Not me.

Shaking my head, I press into the white lid of the plastic orange bottle, open the container, and give in to the admission with a heavy exhale. Here I am, in full habit mode.

Because it sounds more forgivable than addiction, a word I’m having a hard time accepting, even though I’m well aware it’s more chemical than psychological.

For now.

It’s my nature, the core of who I am. When I ache on the inside, I dull out everything else. It’s easy to get injured just right so it doesn’t disable me, cry to my doctor, listen to some medical blah blah blah and then take the meds. Eventually, the pain stops, but the pills still come.

And I, so good at the bad habits, always take them.

The clock radio in my Mustang reads six pm. It’s basically time for my coffee.

I chortle at the thought, opening my glovebox and pulling out a CD case that dates back to the 2000s. Miley Cyrus’ debut album. I grin, remembering how I’d bought it sarcastically but ended up loving nearly every goddamn song. MorningStar had to ride with Feral-Streep to practice for three whole months because I refused to play anything else until I had memorized every single lyric.

And now that CDs are relics, it’s my favorite prop.

Checking around to make sure no one is roaming the parking lot, I place the CD case on top of the middle console and drop two pills right over Miley’s face. I dig through the glove box, looking for the spoon, unsure if I’d taken it out at the hotel. Without it, I’ll have to improvise, which is fine. I can adapt.

I pull an old gift card out of my wallet and a trusty dollar bill. It’s trained already, rolled up into the perfect shape, just waiting to be tightened into a little straw. I open it up, folding it in half and dropping the painkillers inside like an envelope, folding the edges together to avoid any spills. With the CD case perfectly centered in the middle console and my one dollar envelope stuffed with pills, I press down with the gift card, doing my best to crush my medicine into a fine powder.

A cracking noise immediately lets me know this is the last time I’ll be able to use Miley for the job, but I push down one more time anyway, hard enough to be sure there are only crumbs left of my pills. Meet Miley Cyrus is officially fucked, a giant split in the center that spiderwebs off into four directions, making it an impossible table for the itch I desperately need to soothe. I sigh, picking up my dollar pouch and tossing the broken case into the backseat.

I settle for my middle console, knowing I’ll never get all the powder out of the fuzzy fabric and that I’m about to be inhaling years of built up dust and cigarette ashes recirculated through my car’s AC system.

Fuck it.

I dispense the powder into a perfect line, undoing the enveloped bill and smoothing out all the wrinkles before re-wrapping it into a little straw. Another glance around the lot, just for good measure, and then, I put the rolled up dollar in my nose. Plugging the opposite nostril, I go to town. In one single inhale, I suck up the entirety of the line. I ignore the burn, keeping the nostril plugged as I facilitate drainage by pushing against the other cheekbone.

Full body shudders have me shaking my head like a dog, the bitter taste of the powder sliding down the back of my throat like a familiar friend. I search the car frantically for something, anything, and settle for an old can of Coke, forgotten with time in the cup holder of my driver side door.

I jiggle the can side to side, checking for liquid and feeling my heart soar at the sound of the stale soda splashing around the bottom. Turning it over, I swallow it down, pushing the astringent powder further down my throat.

Wretched.

The only thing worse than the warm, flat Coke, is remembering I ashed a cigarette into this particular can at least three times last week.

Acid rises up to my jaw, the feeling of nausea sweeping through my body in one hot burst.

Shaking my head again, I heave, this time loudly, as if it can somehow make the feeling better by purging it with noise. It works with tequila, so why can’t it work with painkillers? The mellowing isn’t immediate, but just knowing it’s in my system is enough to give me courage, enough to ease the anxiety and make what’s coming next just a little more bearable.

Nothing feels bearable anymore.

A natural symptom of watching my mother slowly die of cancer.

I wrap the laces of my quads around my fingers before I go for the bags in the trunk alongside all my protective gear. I’ll skate a few laps, mend things with Asha, have a good cry together for old time’s sake. Solid plan.

A quick glance in the side mirror, just to make sure there are no crumbs hanging from my nose, is all I need. I catch a flash of my dark circles. I’m deeper in the cycle this time than I realized, but I’m already here, and it’s too late for regrets. Rolling my shoulders back, I take a deep breath in through my mouth.

Fuck, am I really doing this?

Am I really tucking my tail between my legs and running home in hopes that Slaughter and Skatium can fix everything that’s wrong with me? Am I really stupid enough to think that after abandoning my skate-family for five years, there would be anyone waiting for me with open arms?

I look at my phone, Asha’s last voicemail still flashing unheard.

I’m too afraid to press the button, too afraid to hear my oldest friend’s voice and admit I made the biggest mistake of my life by leaving.

She called, though, and that’s why I’m here.

Five years without a word from each other. Five years, because when I left there were only tears and pain between us. Seeing no other choice for me and carrying a heart full of acceptance, Asha sent me off with the promise that if she called, I’d come back.

Five years without her.

And then she leaves me this voicemail a few weeks ago.

I stare at the double doors, ignoring every alarm my brain blares off. This isn’t my home anymore, hasn’t been for half a decade. I’m delusional if I think there’s anything but pain and suffering waiting for me through those doors.

I welcome it anyway.