If Everything Could Ever Feel This Real Forever

I knew I had screwed up, I knew that feeling of disappointment oh so well. I was disappointed in myself, my decisions, my lack of judgement.

As I laid on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, convulsing and hallucinating, I knew I had relapsed all over again. I knew that this wouldn't just be a one-time thing. Just as the last time hadn't been a one-time thing. And the time before that.

My addiction had reached a peak at which I didn't know why I needed to abuse anymore, I just knew that I had to. It no longer gave me the ornate, crystalline hallucinations or the beautiful buzz that I initially enjoyed. Instead, I just had to inject more and more to achieve anything that would mimic a high at all. And even then, I ended up miscalculating and shaking with my face down on my uninviting bathroom floor.

I felt pathetic. I don't know how I live with myself, I thought with repulse, I don't know how I am able to look at myself in the mirror. I don't know how others surround themselves with me and enjoy it, or at least pretend to. I'm not worth anyone's affections. No one at all

As I was beginning to loose track of my thoughts, the bathroom floor became more and more comforting, and I eventually curled up in the fetal position and drifted away into a sweaty, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, it was daylight. My clothes were completely soaked through. As I frantically got off the floor, the blood rushed painfully to my head and my legs gave way.

Once I finally steadied myself up, I stripped until I was stark naked and stared at myself in the mirror. I was thinner, tragically so. I have always been pretty lean, but over the last two years, almost every bone on my body is painfully pronounced and noticeable through my pale and almost greying skin. The mere sight of me makes me want to throw up, but I can't even do that because there is nothing in my system to throw up.

I turn on the shower and try to wash away my guilt, my disgust, my addiction. I almost burn my skin because I use scalding hot water, when I come out of the shower I am pink and pruning. Still, I feel as dirty as ever. And no amount of holy water can wash away this feeling.

I walk into my dingy room with my towel around my body, checking the time on the way. I have about two hours before I have to be at work. I blow-dry my hair, brush my teeth, put on work clothes, and slather myself in perfume.

I suppose the reason that people don't give me a wide berth is because no one, save for my best friends, know about my addiction. I'm a completely functional addict. According to all the websites and books I've read, what I am able to do is completely unheard of. But perhaps those people only make it sound so life-altering because they don't want to seem like they are endorsing drug usage. In any event, I am completely able to mask any signs of my drug use to the world.

I use bronzer and makeup to hide how pale I really am, and if people comment on my weight then I say that I have always been thin or that I'm trying out a new work-out regimen. Since everyone in New York City is image-obsessed, none of these answers are out-of-the-blue or unbelievable.

Now that I'm ready, I look at my phone again to check the time. I have an hour and a half until I have to be at work. Fortunately or unfortunately, my office is only two blocks down from my apartment building, so traveling is neither bothersome nor time-consuming.

But I had to wait. I hated waiting, somehow waiting seemed to accentuate the emptiness, the void, in my life. And by extension, it made me want to shoot up so fucking bad. I paced around, knowing that there was no way I could get in an honest day's work if I did meth right now. So for lack of nothing better to do, I called up Nicholette.

"Hello?" she called, sounding unsure if that was the appropriate greeting.

"Hey, Nic, how are you?" I asked, hoping she was all right. She had the tendency to end up in the most. . . unfortunate of situations, to put it very lightly.

"Uh, if I said I was good I'd be lying through my teeth, M, she grumbled. I could picture her getting up and rubbing her most probably pounding head.

I sighed, "Where are you? I'll come get you, I'll bring you fresh clothes for work and some cologne."

"Yeah. . .about that, I'm not too sure where I am. I'll find out in a sec and text you the address, thank so much, darling," she said, and I could hear her running water in a tap somewhere, probably getting ready to freshen up and wash away her sins.

I hung up and turned on the radio, busying myself by packing essentials for Nic in a tote bag- foundation, rouge, sheer lipstick, some vanilla-scented perfume, a high-waisted skirt, a blazer, and a dress shirt. By the time I was done, she sent me the address, so I turned off the music, locked my apartment and headed out.

It took me about fifteen minutes to get to the apartment complex and Nic was waiting outside, surely enough in the clothes she wore last night, looking straight-backed and about as classy as one can look in a crinkled dress.

That was the thing about Nicholette, she exuded confidence, sensuality, and self-assuredness, although heaven knows that is the farthest thing from the truth about her. This was probably the reason she slept around, but I can't confirm it. I don't question her about her escapades, neither does Janey. We can't, really, without the fear of being totally hypocritical. We all have bad habits. We don't question it, we just pick each other back up and hold each other's hair up. I suppose that is the only thing we can do, since we're all beyond help.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," she exclaimed, getting into the taxi I was in. "Thanks so much, M."

I snorted, "You'd think you would learn by now that the thanks is unnecessary. But you're welcome. Care to explain yourself, missy?"

"Yeah, over coffee, please? My head is exploding. I'll change in the bathroom stall and then we can sit and talk and I can clear my head before work."

I agreed and directed the cab driver to the nearest Starbucks. Once we both had our coffees and Nic was out of the bathroom, she began to explain.

"Okay. So I went to Hannah's party yesterday, with absolutely no intention of doing the naughty, whatsoever, right?" she started, playing with her dirty blonde hair instinctively.

I cut in, "Nic, you don't even like Hannah. Why would you go to her party?" Hoping to subtly hint that she had put herself in this situation.

"Well, I don't know, I guess I was just looking for some fun. I mean, it was a Sunday night and I was all alone at home watching Scrubs re-runs. I felt pathetic so I decided to go out," she justified. "Anyways," she said, emphatically, suddenly enthusiastic to continue her story now, "I ended up drinking too much vod-"

"As always."

"-ka. And this guy I dated in high school happened to be the-"

"As always."

"-re, and I hadn't seen him in forever! So we went to his place to talk someplace quieter and I don't know, one thing led to the other."

I sighed. One thing always led to another in Nic's world. But I knew I couldn't say that out loud so instead we joked around about it. She rated the guy on a scale of one to ten based on different criteria such as effectiveness, satisfaction, looks, et cetera.

After a few minutes, we walked out of the coffee shop, linked elbows and giggled on our way to work. If only our lives were as simple as this moment: laughing in a suspended moment of time where nothing or no one matters.