The World I Know
So I walk up on high
And I step to the edge
To see my world below.
And I laugh at myself
While the tears roll down.
'Cause it's the world I know.
It's the world I know.
December 12, 2003
"Fuck You! I don't need you to tell me what to do! We're not married! You don't own me! I make my own decisions!" he screamed at her.
The look in her eyes told him that he had gone too far, but he didn't care. He told her he was not going out with her and her stuck up friends. He made plans when she told him of the girls-night-out, and now all of a sudden they change their plans and invited all of their boy friends/husbands, and he is supposed to drop everything and go with them. No fucking way.
"I don't believe you! All I asked is if you could change your plans and go out with us. And you jump all over me. What's gotten in to you?"
"I'm not going!" he yelled back at her.
"Maybe I'll find someone else while I'm out!" she spat.
With a flip of his hand he said, "Go ahead. See if I care!"
Twirling around she screamed, "FINE!"
"FINE!" he yelled back as he lay back onto the coach.
December 13, 2003
He wavered, almost falling to his knees when Lieutenant Green informed him that Rachel was dead. Asleep on the coach since the fight, the banging on the door woke him. God, if it only was a dream he screamed to himself. Yeah they fought last night, but he still loves her. Loved her.
The call to her parents went as he thought, he would make the arraignments to send Rachel home and they would arrange for the wake and funeral. He hung up the phone and sat back into the coach. Tears came to his eyes as he began to go over the events to come over the next few days. He knew he couldn't survive; he needed something to get through them, that's when he called Jim.
December 15, 2003
He barely remembered packing, a suit for him, and a dress for her. Picking the dress started his pain all over again. It was all too much, too much for him to cope with, as he did another line of coke. The trip to Great Falls was a blur, meeting her Mother and brother at the airport was emotional, but reserved, maybe because they were in a public place. But their home was a different story as behind closed doors the grief was evident.
No one knew. Friends and well wishes stopped by as they gave their last respects to Rachel and offered their condolences to her parents, and to him, the fiancée. All the while he knew he should have been with her, he knew he could have saved her, or as he felt right now, he would have died with her. That would have been better than this.
December 12, 2004
It was a few hours after the sun went down, and quickly the temperature followed suit. He put on a light winter jacket and headed out; taking only a few steps told him he should have put on a different jacket, a heavier one as the cold cut through him, all the way to the bone. It was something that he wasn't prepared for when he left his makeshift room in his mom's basement, but it was necessary.
It was the one-year anniversary and so much has changed, after the funeral his boss cut him some slack, but after five months of coming in late or not at all, his boss had enough and let him go. The loss of his job wasn't bad, it was moving back home that hurt. At least he moved into the basement and not into his old room where he would have been under the watchful eye of his Mom and new step dad, a real tool.
He had walked just over a mile, halfway to his destination, when the snow started falling, lightly at first, but they were big snowflakes, the ones that make the scrunching sound when you first walk on it and the best packing for snowballs. It didn't matter as he trudged on, snow or no snow, cold or no cold, he had to get to Jim's.
He turned off the street and into an alley, halfway down he moved through an opened gate and made his way to the steps leading down to Jim's place, another basement home. He pulled his shaky hand from his pocket and knocked on the door. He looked back to the yard, the falling snow illuminated by a street light, was coming down harder than before. His trip home would be interesting.
He turned back to the door when it opened to a disheveled sleepy young woman who grunted at him.
"Uh, hey, uhm is Jim home?" he asked.
She rubbed her eyes, looked him up and down, nodded her head behind her, turned and walked away leaving the door open. He walked in closed the door and followed her through a very clean apartment, something you normally wouldn't associate with a full time college student.
He walked into what appeared to be the front room where he saw Jim sitting in front of a PC typing on a keyboard, "Hey Jim, you got some shit for me?"
Jim didn't want to look up, he knew the voice, and in fact he dreaded hearing. Shaking his head he said, "Dude, you need to lay off man, this shit will fuck you up."
Putting a smile on his face he said, "Jim. Jimmy! Come on man, it's me!"
Still typing, not looking up he replied, "Yeah I know. It's been a year, man. You need to put it behind you, and get on with your life."
"Listen, either give me what I want or I'll find it somewhere else."
Jim stopped typing, "Ok man. I tried." He got up and walked over to a hutch, opened one of the drawers pulling a couple of vials out and turned back and said, "Here you go."
It was the last time they had a conversation that didn't end up in a shouting match, or a fight. The next time he came over, Jim told him he was cut off, that he wouldn't participate in killing his friend. The ensuing fight was over quick, ending with a threat to call the cops on Jim's sideline business.
December 12, 2007
The needle slid into the vein easily even though his hand shook with anticipation. He pushed the plunger and immediately felt the hot liquid flow into his vein. He sighed contentedly knowing that soon it would be all better. His hand slipped from the syringe, forgotten for the moment, it hung from the vein in his arm sickeningly.
People passed by not looking at the sad sight of a derelict shooting up in the middle of the night, human compassion was lost to him, but he didn't care. Compassion was the last thing on his mind, shooting up was paramount. He wanted to lose himself in the haze that would close around his mind and allow him to leave this existence for another; at least temporarily until reality was allowed to seep back in as the narcotic lost its potency.
In another life he had a name, in this existence he had none, and he had no life. When people did talk to him it was 'hey you get the fuck out of here' or 'move along or I'll call the cops'. It didn't matter because he didn't care. He gave up caring years ago.
He remembered the needle and pulled it out, placing it on the ground next to his other possessions, an old paper bag containing a lighter, a bent spoon, an empty bottle of some long forgotten liquor, and an old coat a couple of sizes too big. The coat, if that is what you would call it now, was the only hold over from his previous life that he was able to hold onto since his fall. Outside of his addiction the coat was the most important thing to him. When he is able to get enough money to feed his addiction the coat would provide him a link to the past that would, during the drug-induced haze, provide him with a means to relive the best part of his life.
But today was different; he sensed it as soon as the dug began to take affect. The drug he shot into his vein was different; it wasn't what he thought it was and for the first time in years panic seeped into his consciousness. Struggling to overcome the effects of the drug, he unsteadily rose to his feet, nearly falling over as he picked up the coat, but leaving the paper bag and its contents on the ground. They weren't important.
His head cleared briefly as he stumbled along lower Wacker Drive, unknowingly into the street. The underground lights seemed to dance around him, and the sounds of car horns barley penetrated his clouded senses as he walked into traffic. As he came to realize where he was, he turned to slowly head back to where he started, but midway in his turn he briefly saw headlights followed by squeal of tires. He was then twirling in the air, akin to skydiving, something he did long ago. And for an instant he was elated, the freedom from gravity made him feel like a bird, and he thanked whatever God there was for this feeling. And in that brief instant it ended to the sound of cracking bones and pain as he hit the ground, and deep in his mind before he lost consciousness he was glad it was over. No longer would he exist, now he could die.
The cloud that kept him from consciousness began to subside as the sound of a lone constant beep filled his ears. He sensed people working around him but knew not who or what they were doing. The clinking of metal on metal soon overtook the sound of the melodic beep and soon voices could be heard. "Where did this guy live, in an outhouse? Nurse, as soon as we get the bleeding under control and set the broken legs and arm, but BEFORE we put the cast on lets get him cleaned, I'm having trouble keeping my lunch down!"
"Yes Doctor. Believe me, there is no one on the floor who will want to get near him if we don't clean him up" replied a female voice.
From somewhere else in the room "I'll need to put him under, he's coming out of it."
The cloud crept over him as he once again drifted into another world.
.... There is more of this story ...