Page 34 of To Her

The drugs had become a constant, not just on weekends but increasingly during the week as well.

A pill to get through a particularly tedious day at work.

A line in the bathroom of a bar on a Wednesday night.

Whatever it took to keep the numbness at bay, to feel something, anything, even if it was artificial and fleeting.

I started to hook up with strangers and started to drink more, waking up in random places and just not caring, getting Ubers home the next day and pretending that life was fine.

The faces had blurred together after a while—the guy from the VIP section with the expensive watch and the cocaine; the girl with the tongue piercing who'd taken me home to her loft and fucked me until I'd seen stars; the couple who'd invited me back to their hotel room for a night I still couldn't fully remember.

Names had become optional, backstories irrelevant. All that had mattered was the moment, the connection, the temporary filling of the void inside me.

"What's your name?" a man had asked one night, his hand already sliding up my thigh in the dark corner of a club I didn't recognize.

"Does it matter?" I'd replied, pulling him closer, my lips finding his in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and desperation.

It hadn't mattered to him, just as it hadn't mattered to the countless others who'd shared my bed, my body, but never my thoughts, my fears, my true self. That part of me had remained locked away, protected behind walls of chemical haze and physical pleasure.

The drinking had escalated alongside the drugs and the sex—no longer just weekend binges but daily necessity.

A flask in my desk drawer at work. A bottle of wine with dinner, followed by shots of whatever was available.

Mornings had become exercises in functioning through hangovers, in piecing together the fragments of nights I couldn't fully recall.

I'd wake up in strange apartments, in hotel rooms I didn't remember checking into, occasionally in my own bed with no memory of how I'd gotten there.

The panic that should have accompanied these blackouts had been conspicuously absent, replaced by a dull acceptance, a resignation to the chaos I'd created.

"You need to be more careful," Alex had said one morning after I'd shown up at his door at 5 AM, dishevelled and disoriented, having lost my phone and my purse somewhere between the club and his apartment.

"I'm fine," I'd insisted, the words slurring slightly despite my best efforts.

He'd looked at me for a long moment, concern evident in his eyes. "This isn't sustainable, Geri."

"Since when are you my keeper?" I'd snapped, irritation flaring. "I thought we had an understanding. No strings, no judgments."

"No strings doesn't mean I don't care if you self-destruct," he'd replied quietly.

I'd laughed at that, a harsh, bitter sound that had seemed to surprise even me. "That's exactly what it means, Alex. That's the whole point."

He hadn't argued further, just let me crash in his bed until noon, then called me an Uber when I'd insisted on going home. But something had shifted between us after that—a distance that hadn't been there before, a wariness in his eyes when we'd meet at The Underground.

I hadn't cared. Or at least, I'd told myself I didn't. Alex had been just one of many distractions, easily replaced by the next willing body, the next chemical high, the next temporary escape from the reality of my existence.

Life had continued in this vein for weeks, a blur of work and drugs and sex and alcohol. Each day indistinguishable from the last except for the growing emptiness inside me, the increasing difficulty in pretending that everything was fine.

It wasn't until New Year's Eve, and The Underground had a work Christmas party that I made a mistake. It was a massive party in the city, and I got wasted and took too many drugs.

The Underground had closed to the public for the occasion, transformed into a winter wonderland of silver and blue decorations, ice sculptures, and an open bar that had been flowing freely since 8 PM.

The staff—normally a disparate group of individuals working different shifts—had come together for the night, a rare opportunity to socialize without the pressure of work.

I'd arrived already buzzed, having pre-gamed at home with a bottle of vodka and a pill from my dwindling stash. The world had been pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, my body light, my mind mercifully quiet.

"Geri!" Tasha had called, waving me over to the bar where she'd been standing with a group of bouncers and bartenders. "You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it," I'd replied, accepting the shot she'd handed me and downing it in one smooth motion.

"Pace yourself," she'd warned with a knowing smile. "Night's still young."

I'd ignored the advice, as I'd ignored all warnings and cautions in recent weeks.

One shot had become two, had become three, had become too many to count.

Someone had passed me a pill, then another, and I'd taken them without question, chasing them with more alcohol, riding the wave of chemical euphoria as it had crashed over me.

The night had fragmented after that—flashes of dancing on the bar, of kissing someone whose face I couldn't recall, of stumbling to the bathroom to snort a line off the sink with a bartender whose name escaped me.

At some point, the party had spilled out of The Underground and into the streets of the city, a roving band of intoxicated revellers moving from club to club as midnight had approached. I'd followed, swept along in the current, too far gone to make decisions of my own.

We'd ended up at a massive club in the heart of downtown, the bass so loud it had made my teeth vibrate, the crowd so dense it had been hard to move. I'd lost track of Tasha and the others from The Underground, finding myself alone in a sea of strangers as the countdown to midnight had begun.

TEN, NINE, EIGHT...

I'd pushed my way toward the bar, desperate for another drink, for something to dull the sudden, inexplicable panic that had begun to rise in my chest.

SEVEN, SIX, FIVE...

A hand had grabbed my ass, hard enough to hurt even through the haze of drugs and alcohol. I'd whirled around, coming face to face with a man I didn't recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, with a predatory smile that had sent a chill down my spine despite my intoxicated state.

FOUR, THREE, TWO...

"How about a New Year's kiss, beautiful?" he'd slurred, his hand moving from my ass to my waist, pulling me against him with bruising force.

ONE...

"Get off me," I'd growled, trying to push him away, but he'd held tight, his other hand coming up to grab my breast roughly.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The crowd had erupted in cheers and whistles, the sound deafening as the man had tried to force his lips on mine. Something had snapped inside me—a surge of rage so pure and hot it had cut through the chemical fog like a knife.

I'd pulled back my fist and punched him square in the face, feeling a sick satisfaction as his nose had crunched under my knuckles, blood spraying in a crimson arc.

"You fucking bitch!" he'd howled, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

Security had materialized almost instantly, alerted by the commotion. "What's going on here?" a bouncer had demanded, looking between me and the bleeding man.

"She broke my fucking nose!" the man had shouted, pointing at me accusingly.

"He grabbed my ass and my tit," I'd retorted, swaying slightly on my feet, the adrenaline of the moment mixing dangerously with the cocktail of substances in my system.

The bouncer had sighed, clearly used to dealing with New Year's Eve drama. "Both of you, out. Now."

"But she?—"

"I don't care who started it. Out."

I'd been escorted to the door, the bouncer's hand firm but not unkind on my elbow. "You okay to get home?" he'd asked as we'd reached the street, genuine concern in his voice.

"Fine," I'd mumbled, though the world had been spinning alarmingly around me, the cold night air doing nothing to clear my head.

"Maybe call a friend," he'd suggested before turning back to the club, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, the sounds of celebration continuing unabated behind the closed doors.

I'd fumbled for my phone, squinting at the screen that seemed to blur and double before my eyes. I needed to get home, but where was home? The address escaped me, my mind a jumble of disconnected thoughts and sensations.

I'd managed to flag down a passing taxi, and slide into the back seat.

"Address?" the driver had asked, eyeing me warily in the rearview mirror.

I'd stared at him blankly, panic rising as I'd realized I couldn't remember where I lived. The drugs, the alcohol, the adrenaline crash—all of it had combined to wipe my mind clean of such basic information.

"I... I don't know," I'd admitted, my voice small and frightened in a way I hadn't heard since I was a child.

The driver had sighed heavily. "Look, lady, I can't just drive around all night. You need to give me an address."

Desperation had clawed at me, tears threatening to spill over.

Who could I call? Alex? No, we'd barely spoken in weeks.

Louise? She'd made it clear she was done with my shit after I'd cut Kelly out.

James? The thought had been laughable—he'd be asleep, and even if he wasn't, I couldn't bear the thought of him seeing me like this.

Con.

The name had surfaced from the depths of my mind, unbidden but undeniable. Con would help. Con always helped, even when I didn't deserve it.

With shaking fingers, I'd scrolled through my contacts, finding his name and hitting call before I could second-guess myself.

He'd answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Geri? It's 1 in the morning."

"Con," I'd choked out, tears finally spilling over. "I need help. I don't know where I am. I don't know where I live. I'm in a taxi and I can't remember my address."