Everything I Used to be is Coming Back to Torture Me
Coming Around Full Circle
The lobby of the apartment building was dark and refreshingly cool after the blinding heat of the Californian sun outside. Clover slid her sunglasses off of her face, tucking them into her purse as she crossed the lobby and pulled open the heavy door leading to the staircase. She met no one on the stairs as she ascended to the second floor and was quite glad of it.
Clover found the second floor hallway as mercifully empty as the lobby and stairwell. She went to her door, shoved the key into the lock, and let herself into the apartment she could actually call her own. The previous day, everyone had helped her relocated her few belongings from Brian’s house to her own apartment. It was a neat, small studio apartment with a beautiful view of the park. It was walking distance away from a little strip mall containing stores that sold anything Clover would ever need and, even better, it was walking distance from the recording studio.
Clover purchased her own bed, a coffee table, and a loveseat, but the apartment came furnished with a fully-equipped kitchen. She felt no need for a television; she never watched much TV. She also assumed that there wouldn’t be much time to watch TV anyway, if the band started working right away on a new album. There were washers and dryers in the basement for the tenants to use.
Even though the band had been home for two weeks, Brian still had failed to tell the rest of the band about Clover’s drug addiction. Clover kind of wished that he would get a move on and do it already so she could stop worrying about it, but if she really wanted them to know, she thought, then she would just tell them all herself. And even though the prospect of Brian telling them the truth was daunting, even worse was the idea of Clover telling them herself.
Clover hadn’t even used drugs since they returned home, but not for lack of trying. Somewhere in her mind, Clover registered that what she was doing was wrong, but the rest of her mind didn’t care how wrong it was. Clover had finally found a drug dealer after some hunting around – she’d gotten pretty good at spotting drug dealers since during the tour she’d had to hunt them down in every new city they arrived in – and had actually just returned from buying from him.
Clover shut the door behind her and walked into her kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and pulling the vodka bottle she’d acquired the night before out of one of the cabinets. She extracted a credit card from her wallet and then went over to her coffee table, kneeling down behind it and taking the bag of cocaine out of her pocket. She poured some of the cocaine out onto the glass coffee table and spread it out into three even lines. She took long swigs of the vodka as she went.
She only felt a little guilty until the vodka started taking its toll. Once the alcohol started to absorb into her system, she felt great. When she finally snorted the drug, she felt even better, awesome even. She took another long drink of her vodka. She felt on top of the world – until she lost her balance and came crashing down ten minutes later.
Clover found the second floor hallway as mercifully empty as the lobby and stairwell. She went to her door, shoved the key into the lock, and let herself into the apartment she could actually call her own. The previous day, everyone had helped her relocated her few belongings from Brian’s house to her own apartment. It was a neat, small studio apartment with a beautiful view of the park. It was walking distance away from a little strip mall containing stores that sold anything Clover would ever need and, even better, it was walking distance from the recording studio.
Clover purchased her own bed, a coffee table, and a loveseat, but the apartment came furnished with a fully-equipped kitchen. She felt no need for a television; she never watched much TV. She also assumed that there wouldn’t be much time to watch TV anyway, if the band started working right away on a new album. There were washers and dryers in the basement for the tenants to use.
Even though the band had been home for two weeks, Brian still had failed to tell the rest of the band about Clover’s drug addiction. Clover kind of wished that he would get a move on and do it already so she could stop worrying about it, but if she really wanted them to know, she thought, then she would just tell them all herself. And even though the prospect of Brian telling them the truth was daunting, even worse was the idea of Clover telling them herself.
Clover hadn’t even used drugs since they returned home, but not for lack of trying. Somewhere in her mind, Clover registered that what she was doing was wrong, but the rest of her mind didn’t care how wrong it was. Clover had finally found a drug dealer after some hunting around – she’d gotten pretty good at spotting drug dealers since during the tour she’d had to hunt them down in every new city they arrived in – and had actually just returned from buying from him.
Clover shut the door behind her and walked into her kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and pulling the vodka bottle she’d acquired the night before out of one of the cabinets. She extracted a credit card from her wallet and then went over to her coffee table, kneeling down behind it and taking the bag of cocaine out of her pocket. She poured some of the cocaine out onto the glass coffee table and spread it out into three even lines. She took long swigs of the vodka as she went.
She only felt a little guilty until the vodka started taking its toll. Once the alcohol started to absorb into her system, she felt great. When she finally snorted the drug, she felt even better, awesome even. She took another long drink of her vodka. She felt on top of the world – until she lost her balance and came crashing down ten minutes later.
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