Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 7. Chapter 7

“Fucking Christ, Luc, just take a bigger hit before bed!” He would growl at me. Of course, once he was awake he wanted to fuck. It was the last thing I wanted when I was still shaking and still feeling that sense of overwhelming anxiety rushing through my body. But I always gave Dale what he wanted. And I found if I took a hit as soon as I stopped shaking enough to mix the damned shit, I would be fine, would be able to please Dale and manage to get back to a reasonably dreamless sleep.

But I really felt like I needed some air. I just needed some time away from Dale. I started going to the apartment during the day. Mark and I still technically shared the apartment, though I was seldom actually there. I gave Mark my share of the rent each month, but that was about it usually. But I started going there more often. Wouldn’t do much while I was there. I would do a little housecleaning, watch a little TV, catch a nap on my own bed. But I found that even the naps would turn into nightmares. I would wake up screaming, my body convulsing with fear. And I was grateful that I was alone. Glad I didn’t have to explain, didn’t have to apologize. I would just get up, go to the kitchen and take another hit. It was almost bearable, almost.

Mark worked during the day. And I was glad of that. I had managed to hide things from Mark. He didn’t know I used. He didn’t know Dale hit me. And thank fucking Christ he didn’t know about anything else. I felt bad about hiding things from Mark. Sometimes, when I thought about it. We had been best friends since I was 13. I had never kept any secrets from him. Oh, he had kept one big one from me for a long time—but I understood that. I never held that against him. Would never have kept a secret from him just to make it even. That wasn’t why I didn’t tell him anything. I just knew it would bother him. He knew about the pot, accepted that—more or less. But he wouldn’t understand the heroin—or why I needed it. And the rest…

But I wasn’t at the apartment much. And honestly, when I was using you couldn’t tell. No more than I had been able to tell Dale was using. I truly could function normally. And I seldom used enough to put me into that sleep state—only when I was actually trying to sleep, when the nightmares came. And I felt perfectly normal while using. Acted perfectly normal, felt perfectly normal.

But one day I was at the apartment and had been woken from a nap by the usual nightmares. I was in the kitchen when Mark walked in the door and caught me shooting up.

“Luc! What the fuck are you doing?” The look on his face was like a slap to mine. I felt like I had been “caught.” Felt like a little boy who had been caught sneaking a drink of his dad’s beer.

“What the fuck does it look like?” My voice was heavy with sarcasm. It was a defensive reaction. I finished the injection and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the heroin hit my bloodstream.

“What the hell is that shit, Luc?” His voice was controlled. I knew him well. I could tell he was trying to maintain a calm he did not feel.

“None of your fucking business, Mark,” I muttered, cleaning everything up. “Who do you think you are, my fucking father?” I probably felt more guilty than I would have if he HAD been my father. Mark was… well, Mark was Mark.

“No, it isn’t.” He set his things down on the counter and walked past me into his bedroom. I heard him shut the door.

**

He waited two days before he said anything else to me. Called me at Dale’s. Asked me to come home for a bit. Said he needed to talk to me. Of course, I went. Mark was Mark. If he wanted to talk, if he needed to talk to me, I would be there. Had promised him that once. Had promised him that I would always listen if he needed to talk.

“I’m so sorry, Luc.” Those were his first words to me. Knocked me right back on my heels.

“Why are you sorry?” What could HE be sorry for? I was the one who had kept things from HIM. I had promised him—we had promised each other that we would never do that, that we would never keep things from each other again. I had broken that promise. I was the one who should be sorry, not him.

He looked at me, but didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Because I didn’t notice, Luc. I didn’t see what was going on.”

“There’s nothing going on, Mark.”

“Yes, there is.” He met my eyes and I could see concern in his eyes. “I thought things were just going good for you. Thought you were happier. You always seemed to be whenever I ran into you.” He turned away for a second. “I thought Dale was helping you get over Paul, was helping you forget him.”

“I will never forget Paul, never!” I nearly spat the words in his face. And a look crossed his face. I had seen that look once before, when I had told him I couldn’t feel that way about him, that I just wanted us to keep being friends. But it was there for only a second, then it disappeared back into concern.

I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees, rested my head in my hands. “I’m sorry, Mark.” Of all the things I could have said, why did I have to say that? Why did I have to snap that in his face?

He sat beside me and put his arm across my shoulders. “It’s ok, Luc.” He meant it. It was ok. He understood.

He then went on to ask me a lot of questions. That was Mark’s way, though. Once something caught his attention, captured his interest, he would ask questions until he knew everything he wanted to know. He asked me what I was using. I told him it was heroin. He asked me where I got it. I told him from Dale. He asked me about how I managed to pay my share of the apartment, eat, drink, buy heroin—which he knew wasn’t cheap—and still have money in my pocket? I could feel the thoughts behind that question. I evaded. Told him I did have a job, after all. I suspected he knew I didn’t—well, not one that paid me a paycheck. But he didn’t push.

And he never questioned me about that again. But he did ask me to promise him I would never shoot up in front of him. “I just can’t stand to see that, Luc. Can’t stand to see you put that poison in your body.” And I promised him. I promised him for two reasons. One, when he had seen me with the needle in my arm I had felt ashamed. I had felt like what I was doing was wrong—and that was not a feeling I wanted to repeat. And two, because he was Mark. And anything he asked of me, if it was within my power to do, I would do.

But he never asked me any questions about anything after that. He would just ask me from time to time if I were ok. Would ask me that whenever we ran into each other. And that started to be a bit more often. I started sleeping in the apartment a couple of times a week. I would always be sure to take an extra strong hit right before bed, and wash it down with a few beers or some scotch. I didn’t want to have the nightmares and that would usually keep them at bay. But sometimes they still broke through.

I would wake up screaming. Mark would come into my room and sit with me until I was able to go back to sleep. Most of the time I would be pretty incoherent. The heroin—but mostly the alcohol mixed with the heroin—dulled me to that point. But I would feel his hand on my back or sometimes even his arms around me. And I would hear his voice. Most of the time I was too far out of it to make out the words, only heard the sounds. But sometimes I did hear them. I would hear him telling me he was there, that he wouldn’t leave me, that he loved me and that he would always be there for me. I never interpreted his words back then. I just heard them, heard them and reacted to them. I just let them make me feel safe.

**

Of course, Dale noticed I wasn’t staying with him as much at night. I told myself—and told him—it was because the nightmares were becoming more frequent. Said I didn’t want to wake him up. I remember when I told him that. We were in the kitchen. He just looked at me. His turquoise eyes seemed harder, colder than usual.

“My bed isn’t good enough for you all of a sudden? What else isn’t good enough, Luc? The shit I give you isn’t good enough—so you give your ass to Papa Doc for some of his shit. My bed isn’t good enough—who you giving your ass to for a bed? Mark? He fucking you too? You’d let anyone fuck you, wouldn’t you, for something you want.” He laughed harshly. “You think he wants you? If he did, he would have been there for you when Paul took off. Who was there for you then, Luc?”

I had been looking down, had not wanted to meet those eyes. And I didn’t think he really wanted an answer. But apparently I was wrong. He grabbed me by the hair and snapped my head back, forcing me to look up at him. “Who was there for you then, Luc?” he demanded.

“You were, Dale.” It was the answer he wanted. And it was true. He had been there for me.

He flung me against the kitchen table, my neck snapping hard enough to make my head spin. “Then don’t fucking forget that.” He stalked from the room.

I wanted to go to the apartment that night. I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I didn’t really think too much about why I wanted that. Looking back, I suppose I wanted someone to be there if the nightmares broke through the heroin. Wanted someone who would hold me and speak softly to me and stroke my hair and rub my back and tell me they would always be there for me. But I didn’t think that far into why. But it didn’t matter anyway. Dale didn’t like my going to the apartment when he wanted me there.

So I stayed with Dale that night. Dale was in a pissy mood. I don’t know why. I didn’t ask why. But he took it out on me.

Rob and Dale were talking in the living room when I came in. I had gone to the store to buy some beer. Not that there wasn’t any beer in the fridge. There was always beer in the fridge. I just wanted something a little different. Was just in the mood for some Labatt’s. Dale always had Michelob.

I didn’t like Rob. I didn’t really like most of Dale’s friends. But Rob was really crude. He was always making jokes about my being Dale’s bitch. I know Dale thought that was funny. I suppose it was in a way. But there was something about the way he said it. I don’t know. Just didn’t sound funny when he said it. But I don’t know.

I walked in the front door of the apartment. Dale looked up at me and as soon as I saw his eyes I knew things weren’t going to be good. I said hi to Rob. I hadn’t one time and Dale had pointed out that I was being rude. I always made a point of remembering to say hello to Rob after that. I walked past them and into the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge. I had set the 12 pack down on the kitchen table when I heard Dale’s voice behind me. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Was pretty obvious, I thought. I had just come in the house with a 12 pack. Obviously I had been to the store to get beer. “I just went to get some beer.” I tried to keep the tone out of my voice. Apparently I didn’t quite manage.

“We have fucking beer. Where were you? With Mark?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He backhanded me across the mouth.

I shook my head. “No, I went to the store—“

He hit me again. “Don’t fucking lie to me, you little shit!”

“Dale, I just went to get some fucking beer!” I pointed to the beer on the table. “I wasn’t with Mark. I wasn’t with anyone. I just went to the fucking store!” I could see Rob standing in the kitchen doorway. He was smirking.

Dale swept the beer off the table with his arm. He grabbed my hair with one hand and yanked open the refrigerator door with the other. He shoved my head in the fridge. It hit the freezer door on the way. “Look! All the fucking beer you want in there. Or isn’t my beer good enough for you either?”

He flung me away from him and I fell against one of the kitchen chairs. He grabbed the back of my collar and pushed me hard against the kitchen counter. “Is anything of mine good enough for you anymore, Luc?” He pressed himself hard against me, his breath close to my ear. “How about my cock, Luc? That good enough for you still? Or you gotten so used to Papa Doc’s big black one that mine doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

“Dale, you know—“

“Shut up, bitch!” He pushed my face down on the counter. I could see my blood dripping onto the countertop.

He held me down with one hand and forced my jeans down with the other. I could hear Rob laughing. Dale had his cock out and was rubbing it against my ass. I could feel it was already hard. Dale always got hard when he hit me.

He didn’t waste any time. He shoved his cock roughly inside me. I cried out. He meant it to hurt, and it did. “My cock not big enough for you, Luc?” He pulled out of me and shoved his cock back into me. Again, he meant it to hurt and again, it did.

I cried out again. I tried to make it sound like it was with pleasure, but it didn’t fool Dale. “I told you to shut the fuck up!” He pushed my face down against the counter again. This time he held it there. And as he fucked me my face smeared the blood all over the counter. And that was what I focused on. I didn’t pay attention to Dale’s harsh words as he fucked me harder than he had ever fucked me. I didn’t pay attention to Rob’s laughter and jeers as he watched Dale fuck me. Instead, I watched the blood spread on the counter, watched the patterns it made, watched as it swirled in circles, watched as lines crossed those circles.

“Fucking Christ I’m tired as shit.” I heard Dale saying when he finally finished with me. I was just standing there. My head was spinning a bit. I reached down to pull my jeans back up and got so dizzy I nearly fell.

“Christ, Luc, get a hold of yourself, will you?” There was disgust in his voice. “And clean up this fucking mess before you come to bed.” He pointed to the broken bottles of beer with his hand, while his eyes looked at the blood on the counter.

I didn’t even try to hear what he and Rob were saying as they went back to the living room. A few minutes later, while I as picking up the broken glass, I heard the front door open and close and heard Dale go into the bedroom.

I finished cleaning up the floor, wiped down the countertop and went into the bathroom to clean myself up. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the face that looked back. It was covered in blood—but that wasn’t what made me not recognize it. It was the eyes. I didn’t recognize the eyes. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. But the eyes that looked back at me were empty. I didn’t see a soul in them. I didn’t see anything in them. I wiped the blood from my face. Just a bloody nose, really. Nothing major. Nothing to get all worked up about. And the “nothings” struck me. Nothing to get worked up about. Nothing major. Nothing behind the eyes. Nothing… And that’s who I was.

I went back to the kitchen and opened one of the bottles that had not broken. I drank it quickly and opened another. But before I drank it, I pulled a small bag out of my pocket. I looked at it. It was nearly empty. I would run out again. Dale probably wouldn’t have any for me—and even if it did, it wouldn’t be as good. But it didn’t matter. I mixed up the last bit of the shit Papa Doc had given me. It felt good as it hit my blood. I downed the other bottle of beer and turned the light out and went to bed. Dale appeared to be asleep as I got in bed. I hoped he was. I didn’t want anymore right now. He stirred briefly and I held my breath. But he was asleep. I let my breath out and lay down. I closed my eyes. The heroin and the beer were kicking in quickly. I started to slip into unconsciousness—not sleep, I knew it wasn’t sleep. It felt warm and comforting and I wondered if that was what death felt like.

**

It was about 4 hours later that I woke up in a cold sweat, my body shaking, my arms wrapping around myself. I looked quickly at Dale. He looked like he was still asleep. I got out of bed, trying very hard not to disturb him. I didn’t want to suck his cock right now and I sure as hell didn’t want to be fucked. What I wanted was another hit. I grabbed my clothes and walked naked to the kitchen. I didn’t want to risk getting dressed in the bedroom. It would be bad enough if he woke up while I was still in bed, but Dale didn’t like me to get out of bed in the middle of the night. He used to say it was because he missed me. He would say it with those turquoise eyes looking into mine, a finger running along the curve of my cheek. But he didn’t say that anymore. If he said anything it was that after all he did for me, the least I could do was to be in his bed when he wanted me.

As I got to the kitchen I remembered I had used the last of my heroin before bed. “Fuck!” I all but yelled the word. As soon as the word left my lips, though, I froze. Shit! What if Dale woke up? I stood perfectly still, holding my breath, not even wanting to breathe, not wanting to make any sound. I listened for several minutes before sighing with relief. No sounds from the bedroom. Dodged a bullet this time. I laughed to myself at the thought. Dodged a bullet? No, more likely dodged a fist.

I got dressed quietly, my mind racing. I had so much in my head. The dream lingered this time. Well, it usually did, but I had become accustomed to driving it away with another hit. But I didn’t have that option now. Well, I really did. I could go to Dale. Could ask him for some. He probably would give it to me—for a price. But for once, probably for the first time really, I wasn’t willing to pay it. I wandered around the apartment restlessly. I sat down on the couch. Couldn’t watch TV, though. Couldn’t risk waking Dale. I closed my eyes. Maybe I should just go back to bed. Maybe I should just get in bed, slide over next to Dale and let him do whatever he wanted. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here with thoughts all jumbled up in my head trying to get out.

And I suddenly realized that I wanted to write. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to write. Hadn’t written since Paul left. Had hardly written anything even before that, not since I left school. It had once been such a part of me. I used to spend every spare moment writing. I had wanted to be a writer. That was all I had ever wanted to be. But that had all gone away from me. Had lost that part of me. Had that part beaten out of my head until it ran from me and down the drain. But here it was again. I was almost afraid to give it a try. But I got up and grabbed an old notebook Dale had lying around. There was nothing in it. He would always take the pages out and get rid of them. Never asked him what he had written in them. Found a pen, put my jacket on and went outside on the back porch.

It was early December, but the night wasn’t that cold really. Well, it was cold enough to be snowing. Those big, wet flakes that stick to everything they touch. I stood on the porch and looked up at the sky. The night was fairly clear—only a few clouds in the sky, just enough to make the snow that was falling. I looked up and stuck out my tongue, let the snowflakes land there, tasted them as they melted there. For a moment I felt like I had once felt. When I was 14 I used to go outside in the winter and walk over to the high school and sit on the steps and write. I would sit there, usually with snow falling all around me, my notebook on my lap and write. Poetry sometimes. Sometimes stories that I would dream would some day become novels. But I would sit there and look up at the snow and let it land on my tongue as I stared up at the night sky. It was a beautiful thing, back then, filled with the possibilities of infinity. Nothing was impossible. And no darkness could ever be complete—not as long as there were stars to light the midnight sky.

But that was back when I was 14 and still innocent. Back when I still couldn’t wait for tomorrow. I was 20 now and innocence wasn’t even a memory any more. And tomorrow was just another day. But I sat down on the porch steps and opened the notebook and looked up at the sky. It had been such a beautiful thing, the winter sky, back then. But now as I looked up all I could think was that the winter sky was a terrible thing. And I wrote the first poem I had written since Paul had left.

abyss

the winter sky at midnight is a terrible thing
black as the ink that spills from my pen
abysmal in its depths like a black hole
a whirlpool of darkness
sucking from me all that is light

the winter stars have a cold and lifeless beauty
cutting like diamonds through the black
never illuminating, never giving relief
only pointing out the darkness
teasing me with what I cannot have

both reveal how small and insignificant
one single drop of ink must be
in a sea of black that has no shore
unnoticed, unrecognized, ignored
even when cast violently into its midst

both mock me, casting me into the void
of fear and anxiety that surrounds my soul
showing me the infinite stretching
of a universe without beginning or end
offering no hope of rest

neither proffers a promise of peace
no sense of safety surrounds me
leaving me to reach out desperately
to find no hand there to grasp mine
as I fall from the earth into the sky