Life of Illusion

My fingers itched. I needed to call her. What time was it there anyway? It was ten o'clock right now, which meant it was probably around six o'clock there. I sighed, scratching me head.

She hadn't tried to call in months, and I had a bad feeling now that she was. Should I call her? Or should I ignore it? Jimmie, what are you up to?

I began to get antsy once again. I locked up behind me as I stepped outside in the cold night air. I shivered, pulling my sweater close to my body.

I get out here, get comfortable, and...and...I can't seem to get away from it. One year, six months, and still everyday is a challenge. I took the coin from my pocket, flipping it over in my hands. I never went anywhere without this stupid thing.

I don't know why, I guess it gave me...strength. I made it one year, why can't I make it two?

Jimmie was into it all, too. The drugs, the sex, the alcohol.

Her boyfriend didn't die. Her life wasn't spiraling. She didn't have to go through withdrawls, sleepless nights, relapsing. Several times. But, even though I thought about it at least once everyday, I haven't touched it in one year, and almost six months.

Monday, it would be 18 months.

I walked around the block, and as I was returning, I saw Oliver sitting out on his porch. “What are you doing?” I asked, walking next to him and sitting down.

“I could ask you the same.” He said.

“You first.” I said nervously, fiddling with my hands in my lap.

“Sometimes I just like to sit out here and look at the stars and think of how great it is to be home.” He answered, looking up. I looked with him, letting the cold air bite at my skin and the stars mesmerize me. “What about you? Late walk?”

“Yeah, I just needed to clear my head.”

“Did it work?” He asked, studying my face. I'm sure it looked distressed.

“No.” I laughed ruefully, “Not in the slightest. If anything, I'm more confused.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

“No.” I said pathetically, covering my face with my hands, I doubled over. My eyes filled with tears. I was so mixed up. And I thought moving away from it all would help. I guess it never really helps to run away from your problems.

Oliver put a comforting hand on my back, my shoulders shaking with quiet and pathetic sobs. “Hey, Ollie--” James started, “Aline? What's wrong?” He sat on the other side of me, wrapping an arm around me.

“I don't--” I hiccuped, something I always did once I started crying. I hated it. “I don't want to talk about it.” I shook my head, not lifting it from my arms which were resting on my knees.

“Are you sure?” James asked softly. My heart twisted painfully. I would have to tell them both eventually. Same with Will. And Edward.

Oh, god. What if I got fired? What if I never found another job? What if I had to go back?

“I can't...” I started, taking a deep breath, “I can't run from anything. I can't even get away for a full week.”

“What?” James asked.

I pursed my lips, shaking my head again, “No.” I denied, voice small.

James, instead of pestering some more, pulled me to his chest and allowed me to cry there. Oliver's warmth left my side and I heard the door shut. “Whatever it is, Aline, I'm here if you want to talk.” James whispered, “Or just cry.”

I nodded, unable to speak at the moment. He was so warm...so comforting.

Like Davis was. Was. I knew what I had to do in that moment.

I pulled away a couple minutes later. “I'm sorry, James...I'll...I have to go call someone.” I wiped my eyes, though tears were still coming. I couldn't lose another important person to drugs. Even if we didn't really talk anymore.

When I unlocked my door and went into the dark house, I leaned again the wall and pulled out my phone. I quickly dialed Jimmie's number and waited for her to pick up.

“Linney? Is this really you?” She sounded like she had been crying, my stomach churned.

“Yeah, Jimmie. It's me.” I said, sniffling.

“Oh my god, I'm so glad you called, I was afraid you hated me.”

“I could never hate you.” I said softly, pinching the bridge of my nose and sliding down the wall. “What's the matter?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do.” She rushed, suddenly starting to sob. “Craig left me, and I really really want to get sober, Linney.”

She was the only one to ever call me that.

“Slow down, Jimmie. Breathe.” I instructed, though trying to keep it together myself. “Start from the beginning.”

“Linney, I'm pregnant.”

The breath I had been holding rushed out, and my stomach fell to my knees. I felt like I was going to be sick. “You're sure?” I gulped, feeling really cold all of the sudden.

“I took three tests.” She sobbed. I flashed back to the terror I had felt.

I woke up, head pounding. God, the hangovers and day afters were always the worst. But, I turned 22, I shouldn't worry. I'm wild and I'm young. And I was going to keep doing it. I would just have to take it some more. That usually took all the effects away.

I stumbled from Davis and my bed, looking for him. “Dave?” I called out to the silent house. There were beer bottles and cups littering the floor. Everyone left and there was no one to help Davis and me clean. Jerks.

“Davis, come on get up.” I said, leaning over the back of the couch where he was still passed out, covered in blankets, his head hanging over the side of the couch. It looked rather uncomfortable. “Davis!” I shouted, shoving his shoulder. It was close to three in the afternoon.

He was cold.

Bile rose in my throat. “Davis?” My voice turned small and scared. I hurried to the other side of the couch, turning his head.

His eyes stared cold and blank. I muffled a scream behind my hands, falling back. My blood shot eyes, red rimmed and terrified flooded with tears.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

I pulled at my hair. What was I going to do? I couldn't call the cops, they'd know I was on something, too. I'd get arrested, go to jail. I barely made it to the trash bin before throwing up everything in my stomach.

The taste and smell made me vomit some more.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

How much did he take last night? The details were too fuzzy in my mind. What had happened? Did he overdose, did the drugs react adversely? What happened?

All I could think of was the guy I have been in love with since I was 16 was dead. Dead on our couch. Our couch that we've shared for three years. He was one of the reasons I even started doing drugs in the first place.

He was a senior when I first saw him. I was only a sophomore. I probably would have seen more of him if he had actually come to school every once in a while. He was so cool, and I just wanted to be accepted into his group of friends.

He was the reason I had started doing drugs. And now he was dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

I vomited some more, this time in the toilet as I went to dig some clean clothes from my room. Because, it wasn't Davis' anymore. Nothing was his anymore.

I couldn't find any clean clothes.

I was still shaking so bad. I didn't know what to do. I pulled on an oversized sweater, I think it was Davis'. It was black and wrinkly, and it covered most of the short shorts I had put on.

“Grandma?” I cried into the phone, longing to hear her voice. Maybe it would calm me down.

“Sweetheart?” She asked, “What's wrong?” It didn't work. I wasn't calm.

“Davis is dead.” I sobbed, collapsing on my floor.

“Did you call the cops?”

“No. They'll get me. I need help.”

“Jimmie, pack your bags, I'm buying you a plane ticket out here. On Monday.” I said.