Page 2 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
The men.
Another night where I am the one keeping track of her breathing. Another morning where I’m the one cleaning up the mess.
I am so tired of being the adult.
The operator’s voice grows distant, fading into background noise. My heartbeat has slowed, steadied, almost matching the rhythm of the rattling breaths in front of me. I stare at her chest, watching it rise and fall, rise and fall, each movement smaller than the last.
I’m not screaming anymore.
I’m not praying.
I’m not even waiting for the sirens.
As I sit there on the stained carpet, staring at the woman who gave me life and slowly watching that life slip away, I realize the truth that will probably haunt me forever.
I’m not hoping the paramedics get here in time.
I’m hoping this ends.
She got bold this time.
Fentanyl.
Not even the slow, tragic spiral of her usual heroin ritual. This was Russian roulette in powder form. Cheap and fast. A downgrade, somehow, from the poison she normally slid into her veins like a lover she trusted.
I guess even addiction has a budget.
Maybe money finally ran dry. Maybe her dealer stopped accepting whatever she was offering to make up the difference when her pockets came up empty. Maybe she got tired of bargaining with her body...bargaining with my body.
“Oc-” she gasps, the syllable scraping out of her like broken glass.
Her hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist. For a second I’m startled by how strong she still is. Her nails bite into my skin, crescent moons carving themselves into me, but the pain barely registers. I’ve felt worse from her. I’ve felt worse at her best.
I’m drenched in sweat from trying to bring her back. My arms ache from crushing my palms into her chest. My lungs burn from forcing breath into hers. I stare down at her, my vision swimming, and I can’t help thinking about how many times I looked up at her like this.
Terrified.
How many times did I look at her with wide, pleading eyes while she stood over me, drunk and righteous, talking about penance and discipline like she was some holy martyr instead of a woman with her fist buried in my hair? She loved those words. Rolled them around in her mouth like scripture. Discipline. Penance. As if dragging me across the carpet by my scalp was a lesson. As if pressing my face against the floor and asking me what her knockoff Louboutins tasted like was spiritual guidance.
“Octavia,” she finally forces out, tugging me closer with the last scraps of her strength. Her breath reeks of chemicals and bile. “Narcan,” she sputters, her eyes darting toward her purse. Her hand twitches in that direction, fingers shaking, useless.
Of course she has Narcan.
She must have taken the fentanyl in the bath. That’s her style. Lock the door. Turn on the water. Let the steam swallow the smell. Minutes after she tossed that greasy diner food onto my bed like she’d done me a favor. Stolen, probably. The fries are still cold beside me, salt sticking to my fingers from where I grabbed a few before she stumbled out.
She came out in nothing but a towel, skin slick with soap, hair dripping, eyes already unfocused. She barely made it three steps before she started gasping. She dragged me off the bedwith her when she fell, fries spilling across the comforter, my mouth still full of them when I realized what was happening.
Now she’s seated beside me on the floor, digging her nails deeper into my wrist. The skin splits under the pressure. I flinch, but that’s all she gets from me.
“Since when do you prepare?” I scoff, the sound hollow even to my own ears. My eyes blur, not with tears this time, but exhaustion. “You don’t prepare. You improvise.”
“Get me the fucking-” she wheezes, choking on the air that won’t fill her lungs. “Narcan-”
The word hangs there between us.
All I have to do is reach into her purse.
It’s right there. Half unzipped. Lipstick rolling near the edge. A crumpled receipt. The bright orange case would be easy to find.
