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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 9. Chapter 9
Dale was waiting for me at the door. I could barely manage getting out of the car. Every inch of my body hurt and I was feeling sick, like I was going to puke at any minute. The sick was the withdrawal, the rest was courtesy of Tyrell, Ramon and Papa Doc. And I needed a hit so badly. I knew the hit would help. Would take away everything-—he pain, the words, everything. But I took one look at Dale’s face and just knew nothing was going to go away.
Dale didn’t give me a chance to speak. I set the package down on the kitchen table and as I turned, Dale’s fist connected with my face. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He hit me again, sent me back against the counter. “I got a call from Papa Doc. Told me you fucked up. Told me he wanted $100 more for the same shit next time.” He punched me hard in the stomach. I felt the contents of my stomach come up. Dale backed away in disgust. “Who the fuck do you think you are? All the shit I’ve done for you and you fuck with Papa Doc?”
I looked up at him, met his gaze straight on. “You haven’t done shit for me Dale. Anything you’ve ever done, you did for yourself. I don’t mean a goddamned thing to you.” I choked the words out, the vomit still threatening to rise in my throat. And I knew as I spoke the words that Dale was going to beat the shit out of me. But I didn’t care. I was already hurting so bad it couldn’t hurt worse. And I just didn’t care.
“Your damned right I don’t give a fuck about you. You aren’t shit to me. You think I keep you around because I give a shit?” He grabbed my arm and flung me against the kitchen table. I felt my shoulder pop. “I keep you around because Papa Doc likes to fuck you and that’s part of the deal. He fucks you and I get the good shit. I can cut that shit twice and still keep my customers coming back for more.”
He stood over me. I looked up at him. I expected to see rage, hatred. But instead I saw indifference.
“You think I give a shit about your ass? Oh, you give great head, I’ll give you that, better than any bitch I’ve ever had. And you have a nice tight ass and you take it as hard as I can give it. But fuck, I’ll fuck anything if I’m horny enough. Fuck you, fuck Rob, fuck a goddamned sheep. No fucking difference between you and a sheep anyway, except the goddamned sheep wouldn’t be so fucking needy.” He kicked me hard and turned away.
“But I’ve made a ton of money off your ass, Luc. Best whore I ever had. Better even than Chris. And the nice thing about you, Luc, is that all I gotta do is give you a hit, look at you with my big blue eyes and say I’m sorry and you’ll just bend down and suck my cock and wag your tail and beg for more.”
He turned back and looked down at me, at the blood on the counter, at the blood on the table, at the vomit on the floor, at the blood on my face. “Clean up your fucking mess and stay out of my sight for a while. I have to cut this shit and make me some more money. You want a hit, you clean yourself up first. You look like fucking shit. Wouldn’t even let you suck my cock looking like that.” He grabbed the package and left the kitchen.
I just turned and walked out. Left the mess on the counter, left the mess on the table, left the mess on the floor and talked out. I got in my car and tried to put the key in the ignition. My hand was shaking so badly. I tried to reach it with my left hand, to steady it, but I couldn’t move it in that direction. I put my head down on the steering wheel and felt it swim. But I had to get away. I had to get away from Dale. Oh, I knew I would come back. Dale was right about that. I would come back, my tail between my legs, begging him for a hit. But right now, I just needed to get away. I tried again to get the key in the ignition. After a few tries I managed.
It wasn’t far to our apartment, Mark’s and mine. And that was good, because my left arm was nearly useless. I had probably dislocated my shoulder when I fell. That was probably the pop I had heard. I saw Mark’s truck in the driveway when I got there and my stomach flipped. I had hoped he wouldn’t be home. I pulled in behind him and turned the key off. I went to open the door and realized I couldn’t. I couldn’t move my left arm far enough forward to grasp the handle. And I couldn’t reach across to do it with my right hand because I hurt so badly I couldn’t turn in that direction without my head swimming.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I was nearly 24 hours without a hit and that was starting to break through the pain from the beatings. I felt sick. So very sick. And every word Papa Doc had said, every word Dale had said—they kept bouncing through my head, banging off the walls of my skull. I knew every word they had said was true. No one gave a shit about me. Why the hell would anyone give a shit about me? Who the fuck did I think I was? I was nothing. Those words had been true when I was 16, and they were just as true now. And they would always be true. I would always be nothing.
The door of my car opened and I looked up.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Mark’s face went white as he looked at me. He practically lifted me out of the car. I could barely stand. He all but carried me into the apartment. He sat me down on the couch.
“Did Dale fucking do this to you?” I heard something in his voice I had only heard once before, a long time ago, when I was 16.
I nodded.
“Luc, I can’t take any more of this shit. I can’t let this go on.” He turned and went into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I called out to him. My voice sounded hoarse, cracked.
He came back in with the phone. “I’m calling Roger.”
I panicked. Roger was Mark’s cousin. Roger was a State Trooper. “What the fuck are you doing that for?” I tried to get up but couldn’t.
Mark turned away. “Luc, I gotta get you out of this. I don’t care how. I’d rather see your ass in jail than see you like this.”
“Fucking Christ, Mark! I thought you were my fucking friend.” I kept trying to get up, but the more I did, the more I hurt, the more I felt like I was going to either puke or pass out.
“I am your fucking friend, Luc!” He still didn’t look at me. “That’s why I gotta do this. I know you’re running for him, Luc. I figured that out that first day. I know you don’t have any job. It’s a fucking small town, Luc.” He turned to look at me at last. I saw his eyes were bright, like there were tears in them. “And I know you’re a clumsy bastard, but even YOU can’t trip over your own feet enough to explain all the bruises, the cuts and the broken noses.” He looked at my face, cringed and turned away. “And he did this to you this time. What’s he going to do to you next time, Luc? Or the next time after that?”
He started punching the numbers.
“Mark, please. Man, I don’t want to go to jail! Please, just forget it. I won’t go back to him. I’ll stay here. Please, Mark!”
He went into the kitchen and I could hear him talking, hear him asking for Roger, hear him asking Roger to come over—NOW.
“Mark, you fucking son of a bitch! You are no better than Dale! You don’t give a fuck about me either. You are worse than fucking Dale. At least Dale doesn’t pretend to give a shit about me.” I could hear him hang up the phone.
“And you once said you loved me, you fucking prick.”
“I do love you, Luc. Christ, don’t you see that’s why I’m doing this? I told you I would always be there for you when you needed me. You need me now, Luc, even if you are too fucked up to see it!”
“Always be there when I needed you? You have never been there when I needed you. You weren’t there when Paul left, you weren’t there when your friends fucking raped me—“ I stopped realizing what I had just said—shocked at what I had just said. I looked up at Mark and saw that my words had hit him square in the chest. He looked stricken. That was the only word I could think of that fit that expression. Stricken.
Mark turned and walked out the door. Didn’t even grab his jacket, just went to the door, opened it and went outside. I could see him just standing there on the front porch. I leaned back against the cushions of the couch. I wanted to die. At that moment I knew I just wanted to die. And it wasn’t the pain in my body, nor the withdrawal that had now completely broken through the pain. It was the look in Mark’s eyes when I had said that last thing to him.
I just sat there staring out the window, staring at Mark standing there on the porch. His back was to me and I was glad of that. I didn’t think I could stand to ever look at his face again. It seemed forever before Roger arrived. I had met him before, at Mark’s parents’ house, at one of the holidays. He looked a bit like Mark only older. I heard him talking to Mark, but didn’t hear what they were saying. Then he came through the door, another Trooper followed him. He gestured toward my bedroom and the other Trooper went into my room. I knew what he was looking for. And I knew Mark had told him where to find it.
You can be arrested for possessing drug paraphernalia. You don’t have to actually have any drugs in your possession—just have to have the paraphernalia associated with them. Mark knew that. Why wouldn’t he know that? He was related to half the fucking cops in the county. Roger helped me to my feet. He was really careful when he put the cuffs on me. Could probably see my shoulder was dislocated. He could probably also see that I wasn’t going to put up a fight. He read me my rights as he led me through the door and out to the police car.
As we passed Mark, I heard him say, “I’m sorry, Luc. I’m so sorry.”
And I could tell by the sound of his voice he didn’t mean for having me arrested.
**
I leaned back against the backseat of the police car. My head was pounding and I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was going to pass out or puke. I closed my eyes, hoping it was pass out. I really wanted to escape my head, wanted that blackness. But my head spun and I kept seeing Mark’s eyes, bright, wet, tears in them but not falling. I had put those tears there. And I watched them change, watched them go from concern and sorrow to shock and guilt. I groaned a little, my stomach twisting. And then I heard my own voice saying, “You are no better than Dale… You are worse than fucking Dale!” And I watched those eyes change again, watched them change from Mark’s baby blue eyes into Dale’s turquoise ones. No! He was nothing like Dale! I opened my eyes with a start, wanting to shut that image right down--and my head swam and my stomach lurched.
“Fuck, man, I’m going to puke.” I groaned the words, hoping like hell that they would stop the car, open a window or something. I really didn’t want to puke on myself.
“Shit!” Roger’s partner exclaimed and quickly pulled the car over, turning the wheel so sharply that I hit my head on the window. That didn’t help. Roger got out and opened the door just in time. I leaned out, nearly fell out really. Roger grabbed the back of my collar to keep me from falling face first onto the pavement as I puked my guts out.
I could hear Roger’s partner going on about fucking drug addicts puking all over his car, but I didn’t really care. Roger pushed me gently back inside the car and I winced as he shined his flashlight in my eyes. “Boy, whoever hit you did one hell of a job. My guess is you have a concussion on top of everything else.” I looked at him through squinting eyes. I could see him shaking his head. “You’re going to be in for one hell of a bad ride down.”
“Christ, Rog, let’s get this kid to county before he pukes all over the seat!” Roger’s partner was impatient. I didn’t hear what Roger said to him. I had already passed out.
**
I came to in the infirmary of the county jail as the doctor was popping my shoulder back in. It hurt a hell of a lot more going back in than it had when it had been dislocated. I let out a yell and was immediately rewarded by being restrained by two enormous deputies. Don’t know what they expected me to do. I wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight. But I suspect they encountered all manner of violent drug addicts on a daily basis. There was no reason for them to suspect that I would be any different. And I am sure I looked the part. I could hardly see out of my one eye—it was pretty much swollen shut. And I knew my nose was broken, again. I had no illusions. I looked like I had been in one hell of a fight. Some fight.
Roger had said it looked like I had a concussion. The doctor confirmed that I did. That, and the cracked ribs, got me a stay in the relative comfort of the infirmary for the night. It didn’t get me out of the traditional strip search and all of the other welcoming procedures that accompany a stay in jail.
All things considered, I guess the enormous deputies were a good idea on their part. I was one mass of pain, but that pain was accompanied by one hell of a bad attitude. I was in withdrawal—which was bad enough physically. But with me, the physical effects of withdrawal—which I had been experiencing on a weekly basis lately—were nothing compared to the emotional effects. My anxiety level was rising off the charts and I had this overwhelming sense of something lurking just at the edges of my consciousness, something dark and all encompassing, ready to swallow me up like a black hole. If I had to label that feeling, I would call it despair. Nothing was ever going to be good. My life was over from this point on. And it was what I deserved. I was no one. “Who the fuck do you thin you are?” Kept hearing that over and over in my head. And the answer kept being “No one.” And I had brought it all on myself.
I wasn’t exactly cooperative. I had been a good little druggie at the apartment, going quietly without a struggle. But I had just hurt my best friend—deeply—and the shock of my own words had numbed me, deadened me. I had just wanted to die. I wouldn’t have cared if they had been leading me to the electric chair. And part of that was probably still in my head—not the numb part, but the wanting to die. I didn’t give a fuck. I refused to answer questions. I even took a swing at one of the deputies and tried to run. That just got me pinned to the floor and the cuffs back on me—behind my back this time, which made my shoulder hurt like hell. It also got me charged with resisting arrest and attempted escape.
And the real hell of it all was that I knew there was no way out of what I was feeling. There was no hit to look forward to. I had always been able to endure withdrawal, had done so on a weekly basis when Dale was being a shit—because I knew that if I just waited long enough, I would get a hit and within minutes it would all be better. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I reasoned that if I didn’t die from the physical withdrawal—which I suspected I wouldn’t—I would eventually stop feeling like walking shit. But everything in my head was only going to get worse. I knew that. Couldn’t reason myself out of that tunnel. Couldn’t see any light at the end of it.
I got my one phone call. Got Dale’s machine. I didn’t think about why I called him. I really didn’t expect him to help me. What could he have done? Well, I suppose he could have afforded to bail me out. But really, considering the business he was in, it wasn’t likely he would voluntarily walk into a police station or a jail. Too much chance of not walking out. And maybe what I was really doing was warning him, giving him a chance to get out before they found a legitimate reason to search his apartment. I figured Mark had told them what he knew about Dale. And really, that wasn’t much. Even I didn’t know Dale’s last name. I know that sounds incredible, but I never asked; he never said. And by the time the thought even occurred to me to wonder, I had learned not to ask questions.
So I called him. Left him a message on his machine. Told him I was in jail. I didn’t ask him to come. I knew he wouldn’t. And it really didn’t matter much anyway. The judge denied bail. I was considered a flight risk. He was right. I would have run.
**
A jail cell is no place to go through withdrawal. There is nowhere to go, no place to hide, no place to run to. When I wasn’t lying on the bed shaking and sweating and feeling like my insides were about to become outsides, I was pacing. I felt like a caged animal. Acted like one a few times, as well. I remember throwing myself against the bars, just screaming for someone to just fucking shoot me and get it over with. I wished they would. God, how I wished they would! I remember thinking that if I could I just get loose for one minute, if I made a grab at the guard’s gun, or if I ran for it, maybe—just maybe the guard would shoot me. And if I were threatening enough, maybe he would shoot to kill.
The court appointed lawyer wasn’t much help. I see that now, looking back. Really, possession of drug paraphernalia wasn’t that serious a charge. That alone, while it may be reasonable cause for arrest, is—I believe—no longer even considered a chargeable offense in most states. Of course, I did give them resisting arrest and attempted escape. But any decent lawyer could have gotten me off with probation at worst. But I wasn’t seeing things clearly. And I knew that I was much deeper into things than just possessing the paraphernalia. Well, they knew that also. The piss test I had the day they brought me in tested positive for heroin. So they knew I was using—if they had needed any confirmation of the obvious. But I knew that Mark must have told Roger that I was running for Dale. And really, that was why they held me. Not because of the paraphernalia charge—that was the smoke, what went on the papers. What they really wanted was information on Dale—and, more importantly, Dale’s supplier. They wanted enough information from me to bust one or the other of them. Breaking up “major drug rings” always looks good on records. I wasn’t sure at the time how “major” it actually was. I suspect now it was decent sized if not “major.” Dale was probably pretty small time, actually. But Papa Doc was gang connected, and was in a different county than Dale’s area of operation. So that alone tells me that he must have had a decent sized business if it spilled into two counties. But in any case, the prospect of a “major drug bust” was a carrot dangling in front of someone’s eyes.
But I refused to talk.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
Dale didn’t give me a chance to speak. I set the package down on the kitchen table and as I turned, Dale’s fist connected with my face. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He hit me again, sent me back against the counter. “I got a call from Papa Doc. Told me you fucked up. Told me he wanted $100 more for the same shit next time.” He punched me hard in the stomach. I felt the contents of my stomach come up. Dale backed away in disgust. “Who the fuck do you think you are? All the shit I’ve done for you and you fuck with Papa Doc?”
I looked up at him, met his gaze straight on. “You haven’t done shit for me Dale. Anything you’ve ever done, you did for yourself. I don’t mean a goddamned thing to you.” I choked the words out, the vomit still threatening to rise in my throat. And I knew as I spoke the words that Dale was going to beat the shit out of me. But I didn’t care. I was already hurting so bad it couldn’t hurt worse. And I just didn’t care.
“Your damned right I don’t give a fuck about you. You aren’t shit to me. You think I keep you around because I give a shit?” He grabbed my arm and flung me against the kitchen table. I felt my shoulder pop. “I keep you around because Papa Doc likes to fuck you and that’s part of the deal. He fucks you and I get the good shit. I can cut that shit twice and still keep my customers coming back for more.”
He stood over me. I looked up at him. I expected to see rage, hatred. But instead I saw indifference.
“You think I give a shit about your ass? Oh, you give great head, I’ll give you that, better than any bitch I’ve ever had. And you have a nice tight ass and you take it as hard as I can give it. But fuck, I’ll fuck anything if I’m horny enough. Fuck you, fuck Rob, fuck a goddamned sheep. No fucking difference between you and a sheep anyway, except the goddamned sheep wouldn’t be so fucking needy.” He kicked me hard and turned away.
“But I’ve made a ton of money off your ass, Luc. Best whore I ever had. Better even than Chris. And the nice thing about you, Luc, is that all I gotta do is give you a hit, look at you with my big blue eyes and say I’m sorry and you’ll just bend down and suck my cock and wag your tail and beg for more.”
He turned back and looked down at me, at the blood on the counter, at the blood on the table, at the vomit on the floor, at the blood on my face. “Clean up your fucking mess and stay out of my sight for a while. I have to cut this shit and make me some more money. You want a hit, you clean yourself up first. You look like fucking shit. Wouldn’t even let you suck my cock looking like that.” He grabbed the package and left the kitchen.
I just turned and walked out. Left the mess on the counter, left the mess on the table, left the mess on the floor and talked out. I got in my car and tried to put the key in the ignition. My hand was shaking so badly. I tried to reach it with my left hand, to steady it, but I couldn’t move it in that direction. I put my head down on the steering wheel and felt it swim. But I had to get away. I had to get away from Dale. Oh, I knew I would come back. Dale was right about that. I would come back, my tail between my legs, begging him for a hit. But right now, I just needed to get away. I tried again to get the key in the ignition. After a few tries I managed.
It wasn’t far to our apartment, Mark’s and mine. And that was good, because my left arm was nearly useless. I had probably dislocated my shoulder when I fell. That was probably the pop I had heard. I saw Mark’s truck in the driveway when I got there and my stomach flipped. I had hoped he wouldn’t be home. I pulled in behind him and turned the key off. I went to open the door and realized I couldn’t. I couldn’t move my left arm far enough forward to grasp the handle. And I couldn’t reach across to do it with my right hand because I hurt so badly I couldn’t turn in that direction without my head swimming.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I was nearly 24 hours without a hit and that was starting to break through the pain from the beatings. I felt sick. So very sick. And every word Papa Doc had said, every word Dale had said—they kept bouncing through my head, banging off the walls of my skull. I knew every word they had said was true. No one gave a shit about me. Why the hell would anyone give a shit about me? Who the fuck did I think I was? I was nothing. Those words had been true when I was 16, and they were just as true now. And they would always be true. I would always be nothing.
The door of my car opened and I looked up.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Mark’s face went white as he looked at me. He practically lifted me out of the car. I could barely stand. He all but carried me into the apartment. He sat me down on the couch.
“Did Dale fucking do this to you?” I heard something in his voice I had only heard once before, a long time ago, when I was 16.
I nodded.
“Luc, I can’t take any more of this shit. I can’t let this go on.” He turned and went into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I called out to him. My voice sounded hoarse, cracked.
He came back in with the phone. “I’m calling Roger.”
I panicked. Roger was Mark’s cousin. Roger was a State Trooper. “What the fuck are you doing that for?” I tried to get up but couldn’t.
Mark turned away. “Luc, I gotta get you out of this. I don’t care how. I’d rather see your ass in jail than see you like this.”
“Fucking Christ, Mark! I thought you were my fucking friend.” I kept trying to get up, but the more I did, the more I hurt, the more I felt like I was going to either puke or pass out.
“I am your fucking friend, Luc!” He still didn’t look at me. “That’s why I gotta do this. I know you’re running for him, Luc. I figured that out that first day. I know you don’t have any job. It’s a fucking small town, Luc.” He turned to look at me at last. I saw his eyes were bright, like there were tears in them. “And I know you’re a clumsy bastard, but even YOU can’t trip over your own feet enough to explain all the bruises, the cuts and the broken noses.” He looked at my face, cringed and turned away. “And he did this to you this time. What’s he going to do to you next time, Luc? Or the next time after that?”
He started punching the numbers.
“Mark, please. Man, I don’t want to go to jail! Please, just forget it. I won’t go back to him. I’ll stay here. Please, Mark!”
He went into the kitchen and I could hear him talking, hear him asking for Roger, hear him asking Roger to come over—NOW.
“Mark, you fucking son of a bitch! You are no better than Dale! You don’t give a fuck about me either. You are worse than fucking Dale. At least Dale doesn’t pretend to give a shit about me.” I could hear him hang up the phone.
“And you once said you loved me, you fucking prick.”
“I do love you, Luc. Christ, don’t you see that’s why I’m doing this? I told you I would always be there for you when you needed me. You need me now, Luc, even if you are too fucked up to see it!”
“Always be there when I needed you? You have never been there when I needed you. You weren’t there when Paul left, you weren’t there when your friends fucking raped me—“ I stopped realizing what I had just said—shocked at what I had just said. I looked up at Mark and saw that my words had hit him square in the chest. He looked stricken. That was the only word I could think of that fit that expression. Stricken.
Mark turned and walked out the door. Didn’t even grab his jacket, just went to the door, opened it and went outside. I could see him just standing there on the front porch. I leaned back against the cushions of the couch. I wanted to die. At that moment I knew I just wanted to die. And it wasn’t the pain in my body, nor the withdrawal that had now completely broken through the pain. It was the look in Mark’s eyes when I had said that last thing to him.
I just sat there staring out the window, staring at Mark standing there on the porch. His back was to me and I was glad of that. I didn’t think I could stand to ever look at his face again. It seemed forever before Roger arrived. I had met him before, at Mark’s parents’ house, at one of the holidays. He looked a bit like Mark only older. I heard him talking to Mark, but didn’t hear what they were saying. Then he came through the door, another Trooper followed him. He gestured toward my bedroom and the other Trooper went into my room. I knew what he was looking for. And I knew Mark had told him where to find it.
You can be arrested for possessing drug paraphernalia. You don’t have to actually have any drugs in your possession—just have to have the paraphernalia associated with them. Mark knew that. Why wouldn’t he know that? He was related to half the fucking cops in the county. Roger helped me to my feet. He was really careful when he put the cuffs on me. Could probably see my shoulder was dislocated. He could probably also see that I wasn’t going to put up a fight. He read me my rights as he led me through the door and out to the police car.
As we passed Mark, I heard him say, “I’m sorry, Luc. I’m so sorry.”
And I could tell by the sound of his voice he didn’t mean for having me arrested.
**
I leaned back against the backseat of the police car. My head was pounding and I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was going to pass out or puke. I closed my eyes, hoping it was pass out. I really wanted to escape my head, wanted that blackness. But my head spun and I kept seeing Mark’s eyes, bright, wet, tears in them but not falling. I had put those tears there. And I watched them change, watched them go from concern and sorrow to shock and guilt. I groaned a little, my stomach twisting. And then I heard my own voice saying, “You are no better than Dale… You are worse than fucking Dale!” And I watched those eyes change again, watched them change from Mark’s baby blue eyes into Dale’s turquoise ones. No! He was nothing like Dale! I opened my eyes with a start, wanting to shut that image right down--and my head swam and my stomach lurched.
“Fuck, man, I’m going to puke.” I groaned the words, hoping like hell that they would stop the car, open a window or something. I really didn’t want to puke on myself.
“Shit!” Roger’s partner exclaimed and quickly pulled the car over, turning the wheel so sharply that I hit my head on the window. That didn’t help. Roger got out and opened the door just in time. I leaned out, nearly fell out really. Roger grabbed the back of my collar to keep me from falling face first onto the pavement as I puked my guts out.
I could hear Roger’s partner going on about fucking drug addicts puking all over his car, but I didn’t really care. Roger pushed me gently back inside the car and I winced as he shined his flashlight in my eyes. “Boy, whoever hit you did one hell of a job. My guess is you have a concussion on top of everything else.” I looked at him through squinting eyes. I could see him shaking his head. “You’re going to be in for one hell of a bad ride down.”
“Christ, Rog, let’s get this kid to county before he pukes all over the seat!” Roger’s partner was impatient. I didn’t hear what Roger said to him. I had already passed out.
**
I came to in the infirmary of the county jail as the doctor was popping my shoulder back in. It hurt a hell of a lot more going back in than it had when it had been dislocated. I let out a yell and was immediately rewarded by being restrained by two enormous deputies. Don’t know what they expected me to do. I wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight. But I suspect they encountered all manner of violent drug addicts on a daily basis. There was no reason for them to suspect that I would be any different. And I am sure I looked the part. I could hardly see out of my one eye—it was pretty much swollen shut. And I knew my nose was broken, again. I had no illusions. I looked like I had been in one hell of a fight. Some fight.
Roger had said it looked like I had a concussion. The doctor confirmed that I did. That, and the cracked ribs, got me a stay in the relative comfort of the infirmary for the night. It didn’t get me out of the traditional strip search and all of the other welcoming procedures that accompany a stay in jail.
All things considered, I guess the enormous deputies were a good idea on their part. I was one mass of pain, but that pain was accompanied by one hell of a bad attitude. I was in withdrawal—which was bad enough physically. But with me, the physical effects of withdrawal—which I had been experiencing on a weekly basis lately—were nothing compared to the emotional effects. My anxiety level was rising off the charts and I had this overwhelming sense of something lurking just at the edges of my consciousness, something dark and all encompassing, ready to swallow me up like a black hole. If I had to label that feeling, I would call it despair. Nothing was ever going to be good. My life was over from this point on. And it was what I deserved. I was no one. “Who the fuck do you thin you are?” Kept hearing that over and over in my head. And the answer kept being “No one.” And I had brought it all on myself.
I wasn’t exactly cooperative. I had been a good little druggie at the apartment, going quietly without a struggle. But I had just hurt my best friend—deeply—and the shock of my own words had numbed me, deadened me. I had just wanted to die. I wouldn’t have cared if they had been leading me to the electric chair. And part of that was probably still in my head—not the numb part, but the wanting to die. I didn’t give a fuck. I refused to answer questions. I even took a swing at one of the deputies and tried to run. That just got me pinned to the floor and the cuffs back on me—behind my back this time, which made my shoulder hurt like hell. It also got me charged with resisting arrest and attempted escape.
And the real hell of it all was that I knew there was no way out of what I was feeling. There was no hit to look forward to. I had always been able to endure withdrawal, had done so on a weekly basis when Dale was being a shit—because I knew that if I just waited long enough, I would get a hit and within minutes it would all be better. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I reasoned that if I didn’t die from the physical withdrawal—which I suspected I wouldn’t—I would eventually stop feeling like walking shit. But everything in my head was only going to get worse. I knew that. Couldn’t reason myself out of that tunnel. Couldn’t see any light at the end of it.
I got my one phone call. Got Dale’s machine. I didn’t think about why I called him. I really didn’t expect him to help me. What could he have done? Well, I suppose he could have afforded to bail me out. But really, considering the business he was in, it wasn’t likely he would voluntarily walk into a police station or a jail. Too much chance of not walking out. And maybe what I was really doing was warning him, giving him a chance to get out before they found a legitimate reason to search his apartment. I figured Mark had told them what he knew about Dale. And really, that wasn’t much. Even I didn’t know Dale’s last name. I know that sounds incredible, but I never asked; he never said. And by the time the thought even occurred to me to wonder, I had learned not to ask questions.
So I called him. Left him a message on his machine. Told him I was in jail. I didn’t ask him to come. I knew he wouldn’t. And it really didn’t matter much anyway. The judge denied bail. I was considered a flight risk. He was right. I would have run.
**
A jail cell is no place to go through withdrawal. There is nowhere to go, no place to hide, no place to run to. When I wasn’t lying on the bed shaking and sweating and feeling like my insides were about to become outsides, I was pacing. I felt like a caged animal. Acted like one a few times, as well. I remember throwing myself against the bars, just screaming for someone to just fucking shoot me and get it over with. I wished they would. God, how I wished they would! I remember thinking that if I could I just get loose for one minute, if I made a grab at the guard’s gun, or if I ran for it, maybe—just maybe the guard would shoot me. And if I were threatening enough, maybe he would shoot to kill.
The court appointed lawyer wasn’t much help. I see that now, looking back. Really, possession of drug paraphernalia wasn’t that serious a charge. That alone, while it may be reasonable cause for arrest, is—I believe—no longer even considered a chargeable offense in most states. Of course, I did give them resisting arrest and attempted escape. But any decent lawyer could have gotten me off with probation at worst. But I wasn’t seeing things clearly. And I knew that I was much deeper into things than just possessing the paraphernalia. Well, they knew that also. The piss test I had the day they brought me in tested positive for heroin. So they knew I was using—if they had needed any confirmation of the obvious. But I knew that Mark must have told Roger that I was running for Dale. And really, that was why they held me. Not because of the paraphernalia charge—that was the smoke, what went on the papers. What they really wanted was information on Dale—and, more importantly, Dale’s supplier. They wanted enough information from me to bust one or the other of them. Breaking up “major drug rings” always looks good on records. I wasn’t sure at the time how “major” it actually was. I suspect now it was decent sized if not “major.” Dale was probably pretty small time, actually. But Papa Doc was gang connected, and was in a different county than Dale’s area of operation. So that alone tells me that he must have had a decent sized business if it spilled into two counties. But in any case, the prospect of a “major drug bust” was a carrot dangling in front of someone’s eyes.
But I refused to talk.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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