Anything But Red
5
“Did the medication ever help you?”
“Yea,” I tell him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “At first it did. Or maybe it was just the idea of it that made me happy; the idea that I was supposed to be happy had tricked me into believing I was actually happy.”
“Maybe. Did you ever think that maybe it was the integration of drug use that altered the effects of your medication?”
I shrug.
“How long have you been doing drugs?”
I’m glaring at him. Heat is rushing up to my face. I can feel the nausea rocking me back and forth like a ship at sea. My hands are still grabbing hold of the mattress, afraid to let go. My mind is somewhere else.
“Since I was thirteen.”
The room is dark, the only light coming from basement windows covered by sheets. The smell in the air is organic and earthy, a mix of weed and the typical moss smell of basements. She had long, dark hair. Told stories about how her father abused her as she lit up cigarettes and kicked her feet up on the furniture. As her sneakers hit the wood of the table, her skirt always slid up a few inches to reveal self-induced burn patterns up her leg. I always thought it a piece of art.
That night she said she wanted to show me something. I was afraid of her father coming home, but she said he was always out until morning of Friday nights. She snuck into her father’s shed, stole his stash and moved back to the basement where she rolled them up in pages of his bible and held one out in front of my face.
“Smoke it,” she told me. And so I did.
That night she pulled off my sweater and my jeans and we stood naked in front of one another. We never did anything.
“Yea,” I tell him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “At first it did. Or maybe it was just the idea of it that made me happy; the idea that I was supposed to be happy had tricked me into believing I was actually happy.”
“Maybe. Did you ever think that maybe it was the integration of drug use that altered the effects of your medication?”
I shrug.
“How long have you been doing drugs?”
I’m glaring at him. Heat is rushing up to my face. I can feel the nausea rocking me back and forth like a ship at sea. My hands are still grabbing hold of the mattress, afraid to let go. My mind is somewhere else.
“Since I was thirteen.”
The room is dark, the only light coming from basement windows covered by sheets. The smell in the air is organic and earthy, a mix of weed and the typical moss smell of basements. She had long, dark hair. Told stories about how her father abused her as she lit up cigarettes and kicked her feet up on the furniture. As her sneakers hit the wood of the table, her skirt always slid up a few inches to reveal self-induced burn patterns up her leg. I always thought it a piece of art.
That night she said she wanted to show me something. I was afraid of her father coming home, but she said he was always out until morning of Friday nights. She snuck into her father’s shed, stole his stash and moved back to the basement where she rolled them up in pages of his bible and held one out in front of my face.
“Smoke it,” she told me. And so I did.
That night she pulled off my sweater and my jeans and we stood naked in front of one another. We never did anything.