One More Time Left to Say Your Goodbyes

I peeled my eyes open. Literally, peeled them fucking open. They felt like sandpaper. And I tried to swallow, but my mouth was so dry, it felt like my tongue was stuck to the back of my throat. I could hear machines beeping beside me and the unmistakable smell of the hospital clung to my skin. I looked around me, and all I could see was white. White walls. White sheets. White everything. I looked down and saw that I was wearing a hospital gown. A light baby blue with stupid little designs on it. I sighed and glanced over at the wall. There was a picture of a little boy and girl holding hands with a balloon between them. I tried to lift up my arm to push hair out of my eyes, but failed miserably. Because I was so weak, or because I had eight million fucking IVs stuck to it, I couldn’t tell.

Waking up in a hospital is the worst feeling in the world. You wake up and you know where you are. You know where you are before you even wake up. And then you smell the antiseptic. Nothing is familiar. No familiar perfume or soft scent of vanilla lingering anywhere. And all the fucking beeping. Christ, it’s enough to make anybody go fucking insane. And within the first couple seconds you are awake, you start wondering, why the fuck am I here? Then you start to remember. You remember that you fucked with a little girl named Charlie. And then you freaked out and did too many drugs. You took a lot of shots. And then took a few hits. And this is how you ended up here.

Then you start to wonder, how did they know that I overdosed? I kicked Charlie out and no one could have heard. But then you remember that you were in a hotel room. You remember that someone probably heard you and Charlie fighting and then they probably called the police because they didn’t understand all the ruckus. And then you remember why you hated Charlie in the beginning.

But then you stop remembering. You stop remembering why you started fucking around with her again, why you are even here. You stop remembering a lot of things. Like why you put yourself in these situations.

And why did you take so much fucking heroin?

It’s all bullshit. They tell you that people overdose because they like the high too much. But some people do it just because they want to be dead. They do it because they are scared to finish life, so they want to end it right here. And then these stupid motherfuckers save you and you just want to wrap your weak little hands around their throats and you want to fucking kill them. But then you realize you don’t want to kill them. You wanted to kill yourself and you are mad at them for saving you.

You’re mad at them for loving you.

And now you’re crying.

This is me. This is my life, as Max Green. I can’t handle fucking anything. I want everything and when I can’t have it, I get mad and I try to take it. When I don’t succeed in taking it, I get even more pissed off. But then I start to deteriorate into this pathetic little piece of shit. And I cry like a fucking girl.

“Max?”

I can’t even stop crying. I can’t fucking stop.

“Max.”

I can’t even look. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to do anything but sob.

And I can feel Ronnie’s greasy hair on my arm and he leans over and tries to calm me down. But I can’t do anything. I can’t do fucking anything right. And then I realize I’m talking.

“I can’t do this anymore, Ronnie. I fucking hate myself. I hate everyone. I hate you. I hate Casey. And I fucking hate Charlie. She’s a little fucking bitch and she’s ruined my life. I’m so fucked up. She didn’t ruin my life, I ruined my own and I want someone to blame it on.”

Fucking Christ, this hurts so bad.

And then I throw up.

And it hurts. It burns and my head is fucking spinning. I can’t breathe.

I feel Ronnie get off the bed. I can’t open my eyes. I hear his breath get scared. He calls for a nurse and they’re cleaning me up only moments later. Then I’m in the shower and the whole time, Ronnie is holding my hand. Ronnie is telling me he’s sorry. Ronnie is there.

Ronnie’s always fucking there.

I’m back in bed. They cleaned my sheets. But I still can’t talk.

“Max?”

I try to move my head.

“Stop moving, okay?” He pauses. “I love you, dude. You’re my best friend and you’ve done some really bad things lately. To me, to Casey, and to Charlie. I know that you hate everything around you, man. But you’ve got to get clean. Not for me or anyone else. But you need to get clean for you.”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

I can’t move.

I’m fucking dying. I can feel myself dying.

“I just want you to know that you are not as bad as you might think you are. You’re a fucking beautiful person and I sound like the world’s biggest faggot right now, but fuck me dude. Fuck. You just need to stop this. You need to stop acting like everything is getting brushed off your shoulder.”

He’s quiet. He’s crying. I can hear him crying.

He puts a hand on my arm.

“I love you. I want you to love yourself. You have always been a good person. Ever since we were younger, always looking out for me. Giving me a smoke when I needed one. You’ve looked out for Charlie, even when she didn’t perceive your intentions as good. And as bad as you’ve treated Casey, you’ve done a lot for her. You pulled her out of that shit hole with her mom and you’ve paid her rent when she couldn’t.” He paused again. Sniffled. Fucking queer. “Just stop. You need to stop all this bad shit. Would you be proud of the person you are today? You look so fucked up. So weak, just lying there in that fucking bed.”

I want to kill him.

I want to kill myself.

I want to kill fucking everyone.

This place is so fucked up. So dark.

“I can’t do this. I have to go.”

He puts a cold clammy hand on my chest.

“Your heart is still beating for a reason, Max. People don’t live through overdosing. There’s a reason you are still fucking alive. You and I both know that. So you need to embrace that. Embrace this life that you have, because it’s the only fucking one you’ve got. No matter how shitty or fucked up it can be, you need to understand that you will not get another chance.”

And just like that, he takes his hand off my chest and he’s gone.

And I am alone. In this fucked up head of mine and these fucked up thoughts. And I just want to die all over again. I keep thinking about begging the nurse to just load me up with morphine and fucking kill me.

But I stop thinking after awhile because I’m asleep again.

And all I can hope is that I don’t wake up this time.