Femme Fatale, pt. 2

From @LLeVi8ed:

May 2007

“Well they’re not too deep, thankfully. I don’t even think you need stitches, honestly.”

“Man, that’s what I kept tellin’ y’all over ‘n over again. It’s not bad at all.”

Sitting on the cold, flat table-seat, I remember the aggravating ride to the hospital-yelling at the medics, telling them to stop and pull-over because I was fine. The cuts I made on my left wrist were merely scratches compared to other cuts I’ve had. Like in summer camp, we went out camping when all of a sudden it began to rain. We gathered our soaking sleeping bags and such and sat in the bed of a pick-up, awaiting a ride back to our cabins. Then I realized I didn’t have my pillow, and so I leapt out of the truck and ran to the wooden platform we were sleeping on-

WHAM!

I hit something that shot me back, as if I ran into a wall that had angrily pushed me a few feet backward.

I laid there on the wet grass and sticks when it occurred to me what had happened. I forgot about the barbed-wire fence that surrounded where we slept. I had cuts on my arms and a gnarly one in the middle of my chest. I still have the scars.

Meanwhile, back at the hospital, “Not deep at all. Didn’t even need stitches,” I said quietly to myself.

One of the nurses eventually leveled with me, stating if EMS is called, then they’re obligated to bring someone in. I didn’t know if she was lying to me so I would shut up, or what, but it worked. That switched my anger over to someone else.

That pale, drunk face.

Eyes wide and confused like they couldn’t perceive what was happening.

Oh, but they knew.

This whole mess was her fault.

Someone called saying I fucked them in a closet.

Oh, and described my body?

I couldn’t comprehend my own thoughts.

Did that actually happen? What the hell was wrong with her?

I’ve dealt with drunk girlfriends before, but never anything like that. That one took the cake, for sure.

I had been sitting there freezing my ass off for hours when a doctor came up to me, telling me I could leave, at long last. I needed a shot of dope before I went crazy. I had been looking around trying to spot a nurse’s medical station where they had shots, medicines, etc., but there invariably was a nurse around preventing me from doing anything. I reckoned they knew what was going on with me. My track marks and bruises from collapsed veins weren’t hard to overlook. But fortunately, it was time to go.

Nobody was there waiting for me. I guess they were too drunk to drive, or didn’t care. It would’ve been the least they could have done since this whole matter was her fault. I didn’t sleep with anyone. And I knew no one called her. I wanted to call her, but decided not to. I wanted to simply show up and surprise her.

There was no Uber or Lyft back then, so I had to wait for the yellow taxi with an Indian driver to come pick me up. They had taken me all the way downtown, even though there was a hospital not two miles from our apartment. What the hell? So the cab ride came out to be some forty bucks. Forty bucks that could’ve gone to more dope.

Fucking cabs.

Fucking dope.

Fucking life.

I wanted to quit. It was time. I was done dealing with the endless fear of being sick all the time. Not to mention, my body couldn’t take it any longer. I was pale, skinny and you could tell there was something wrong with me simply from looking. Like a ghost or ghoul. That’s what heroin makes you: A sick, ghoulish fiend with one thing on his or her mind: To not be sick. Even though, I looked sick. The dope wouldn’t get me high anymore. I would have to shoot up a lot more than what I was doing to get high, but we simply couldn’t afford that. We shot up just to feel normal. We couldn’t exist without it.

I arrived back at the apartment at about six in the morning. What a shitty night. At least, I was home and it was all over with. I didn’t even want to talk to Scarlett, I just wanted to take a shot then go to sleep.

I stuck my key into the lock and opened the door.

At least she didn’t deadlock it, this time.

The living room was dark, but I could nevertheless make out the syringes littering the floor. It looked like someone had ransacked the place, but then I realized it was always like that. When you’re not high on dope, you start to see everything how it really is, but when you’re high, everything is different, or you simply don’t care.

Why do I live like this? I couldn’t fathom how or why someone would want to live like this day after day.

I heard shuffling in the bedroom.

“Oh, shit,” someone said.

The shuffling was more quick and frantic now as I walked closer and closer to the bedroom. I had already known what was going on. I could smell sex in the air. I popped my head into the dark bedroom. I saw Mike with a sheet covering him, scrambling, trying to put his clothes on. I was watching all this while Scarlett, shoving me and doing her best to keep me out of the room. I’ve felt my blood boil before, but nothing like this. My vision was blood-red.

She backed me up past the bathroom, which was in-between the bedroom and the living room, to where I was right next to The clock. I saw it and threw a fierce right jab, smashing it to pieces. Enough to where the entire thing shattered, fell to the ground, and left my hand bleeding profusely.

I then ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and went after Mike, who noticed the rage in my fierce, hateful eyes. Rather than continue to get dressed, he bolted out the door, clothes in hand. I should’ve locked the door.

**I’m very sorry, but the next scene I cannot put on the internet; although you will find it in the book when it is published. I am truly sorry!**

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