Without even glancing down at my beat-up flip phone, I send Alex straight to voicemail. I was damaged long ago, though you swear that you are true, I still pick my friends over you. I’m a couple houses away-right next to the gorge where I tried to kill myself three years earlier-when I realize I can’t find the smokes. But then the drugs kick in, and I accidentally nod out for an hour or so in the bathroom before I finally head out into the cold in a black, dragon-print hoodie that leaves me significantly underdressed for twenty-five-degree weather. I leave behind the tiny digital scale, an array of baggies and needles, some assorted pills, and my backpack of schoolwork. You never know when you might need more heroin. He wants me to bring the whole six-ounce stash so that he can check the weight and make sure I didn’t steal any before we sell it.īefore leaving, I take out three or four grams and tuck it under the insole of my black suede sneakers. Right now, it seems, he’s more focused on his phone than on his fear, as he’s been calling me again and again to demand that I come back immediately with our Tupperware of drugs. They are Greek, and he is whispering a tragic chorus. He is fourteen years my senior, but I know how his face looks childish with terror when his dark eyes gape at what is not there and he begins muttering in his parents’ native tongue. I can imagine him there, his tattooed arms prying the blinds open as he checks for the black bears and SWAT teams of his drugged-out hallucinations.
Inkbook canada crack#
He’s been smoking crack all morning, holed up with my skittish dog in our basement apartment beneath an unofficial adjunct sorority house up the hill in Collegetown. You were everything I wanted, but I just can’t finish what I started. The phone goes off again, buzzing with the pop-punk notes of a New Found Glory ringtone bought with drug money. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I’m pissed at him, I’m pissed at myself, I’m pissed at every moment that’s led me here, and I’m pissed that he’s calling on repeat, screaming and threatening me while I’m just trying to get high, to get smashed, to get far away from the darkness I’m running from-or toward. This time, I got extra-high, and that last shot was really just out of spite my boyfriend had the nerve to accuse me of stealing from our heroin, and frankly, I’m pissed. My veins are all shot out and scarred and hard to find, so my stabs at oblivion usually involve a few hours of crying as I bleed all over the floor, leaving behind the speckled blood spatter of a crime scene.
Inkbook canada skin#
Then I mixed up a spoon of heroin and coke and spent the next two hours poking my arms and legs, fishing around under the skin with a 28-gauge needle in search of relief. I emailed one of my professors to beg for another extension and promised myself today would be the day I would finally finish everything I need to graduate. Then, I answered the phone after my boyfriend called repeatedly. When I woke up this morning in the stash house on Stewart Avenue, the first thing I did was look at my day planner-I am over-organized as ever, even on the brink of disaster. My dirty clothes and late English paper-one of the last assignments I need to graduate-will be the least of my problems.īut that’s all in the future. By tomorrow, my scabby-faced mugshot will be all over the news as the Cornell student arrested with $150,000 of smack.
In a minute, there will be police, with questions and handcuffs.
I stop walking and push my fingers deep into my pockets in search of a Parliament. The sun is deceptive it looks like a nice upstate New York morning, but really it’s December and the wind is whipping up from Ithaca’s gorges. I’m only ten minutes from where I’m going, and it’s cold outside. I have problems: I am out of clean clothes, I cannot find my glasses, my English paper is late, and my pockets are not big enough for all the heroin I have.īut, honestly, more than anything, I want a cigarette.
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