Demons In My Pocket

Preface.

There are three regrets I have in my life thus far: my failed marriage, quitting my job last summer and those little blue pills.

Three regrets that without their existence, this story would never come to light. A tale of love, lust, and addiction through the fogged lenses of an overdramatic, slightly analytical opiate addict.

Never say never; that was my first mistake.

Cat litter was strewn everywhere. Not because it had fallen, or because our cat Musket had stepped out with too much clay in between his toes, but it was the sole (and might I as messy AF) consequence of my outburst. I had, in a blind rage, punted the litter boxes off their perch into a disarray of madness. I must admit, It did end up flying off the shelf and into the foyer with all the drama of a Lifetime movie climax scene.

I rolled my eyes.

I flexed my swollen red knuckles and slid around the mess to the front door. Clicking it open, I went outside to feel the hot summer air hit my face and remind me that the summer of 2013 held no mercy on those without AC.

I looked up at the purple-tinted sky and scanned the horizon of the block. Children played in the distance, and somewhere a car alarm chirped. I fought off a chill and wiped my nose.

Almost as if in sync with my thoughts, my phone vibrated.

I glanced down and read the text, “It’s there.”

A smile crept across my face, and I had a strange surge of energy as I flipped back the floor mat and snatched up a folded Wendy’s receipt and a five-dollar bill.

Spinning around quickly and slamming the door, half on accident, cutting the hot July air with a snap. I was inside almost instantly.

I drudged up the winding staircase to my second story loft and let out a loud, drawn-out half-raspberry/half I-hate-you-so-much-right-now sigh as I approached the top. The TV was on, and my lump of a husband sat on the couch, rolling a blunt. Archer blared in the background; glass covered the floor.

Locking the door behind me, I pulled out the tiny clear packet from inside the receipt paper and smiled to myself.

Salvation.

I took out the round blue pill and pressed it onto the cold tile, forcing it to break along the scoreline, and popped half of it into my mouth. I carefully placed the remaining half of a pill back into the baggie with the others. I returned it to my bra and took a swig from the faucet, gulping it down.

Half-heartedly wiping the edge of my mouth with my swollen hand, I glanced at my mascara stained face in the mirror and sighed again.

My life is a fucking disaster.

As I approached the doorway to the living room, I grimaced, and simultaneously swung my foot around and about-faced in the opposite direction. My entire body tensed.

I didn’t even want to look at his face right now. Stupid grinning idiot, with his lopsided smile and stained front tooth, his hair too long because he couldn’t even afford a haircut.

He was probably passed out anyway. Blunt still lit, the ash growing longer as it lies in the ashtray. A spindling curl of smoke peaking from the gray cylinder, slightly tinging the air with the aroma of some “Grade-A Backyard Boogie.”

I rolled my eyes again. If that woman some call my mother had even been the slightest bit right, they would’ve gotten stuck up there years ago.

Always a liar, I thought to myself. I teetered on my tip-toes, sidestepping a shimmering slice of glass by my foot, Musket wound half-agile/half-maybe-I’m-trying-to-trip-you between my legs. I shooed him away so he wouldn’t get cut.

I headed back toward the bathroom and grabbed the dustpan & broom we had received at our housewarming. Back when the house and our hearts were both warm, instead of frostbitten with disdain and resentment. It cracked the second time I used it. I stress the vowel “I” bc Howdy Doody the Husband over here probably didn’t even know what a dustpan was for, let alone that it was used in conjunction with a broom.

As I walked back towards the hallway and bent down to sweep up the shards of glass that had once been my favorite Stella bar pint, a warm feeling started to course throughout my veins, and I suddenly felt like mopping the floors wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Related posts:

Lives rely so heavily on Oxygen. The Chinese character for Oxygen is 氧(Yang), which follows the standardized translation for elements that exist naturally as a gas, but before the standardization…

Of all the little things past said Thrown away in moments, That earned a guilty Stealth reflection, Every standstill take a breath In my head recollected- A tiny voice I’ll remember In its childish…

Finding the perfect collaborative design tool is much easier when you are aware of the top Figma alternatives. Now more than ever, you need a UI design tool that makes it easy for remote teams to…