Seventeen and stupid. That's what one of my sisters maintains. I was just seventeen and stupid and misguided and lonely and angry and depressed. She uses a lot of words to try and take the blame entirely off my shoulders. One of my brothers knows my ugly secret, knows about the browser history full of what ifs.
Addiction.
Symptoms of addiction.
Cocaine.
Meth.
Heorin.
Substance abuse.
Detox centers.
Rehab.
Overdose.
Careless tracks left in open spaces but dismissed with a button. Just a curious kid. I had a free out. Just blame your parents. You're the youngest of seven, they were tired by the time you came along. All their hopes and dreams had been sown so you and the sister a year older than you were left to find your own ways. Just don't do anything stupid is all they advised. I think it became a competition to see who could get as close to that point as possible without going over.
She won.
I dove headfirst over the line.
I gave it a little wave as I passed it by. The countless psychologists after were appaled at my utter lack of selfpreservation. What was the fun in being afraid of dying? What was the fun in being afraid of living?
My sister, the one just before me, she knows the reasons. A hand clutching mine just before visiting hours were over, squeezing tight. Please. Please. Please. Please. Tell us why. Why? He asked. I obliged. That was always the way. He asked. I obliged. Conditioned like some video game protagonist. 'Would you kindly.' Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Softly, a distant voice trembling in the dark. Once strong arms, cold and weak. Diseased. 'Help'.
Yes.
'Please'.
Yes.
'Tonight'.
Yes.
I was seventeen. His age doesn't matter. Neither does mine but all the records on my file like to make a note that I was still technically under age. An impressionable minor. Fell in with a bad crowd. They underline the names of those I was friends with, points to their college classes, to their low GPAs, to their disciplinary infractions. Bad seeds. Bad influences. I took afternoon classes at the college. They made a game of seeing who could get the quiet high school kid to speak up first. His name was Harold. He said 'hello'. The back of his car was a very uncomfortable place but you don't really forget the first place you were with someone. 'Want to,' he says.
Yes.
He never talked much, neither did I. It was comfortable in that dusty living room, worn down couch, thread bare rug beneath our feet. My sisters tell me that the school called after a week. After two weeks. After three. They stopped after a month when I asked my brother to print out the forms for me, to forge signatures. A GED is just as good on paper. Just as good. I whisper that to him in bed, a chant as we come together again and again and again. I think maybe two or three of my siblings noticed my items dwindling out of a shared room until there were maybe just a few articles of clothing left. They didn't ask questions, I never provided answers.
He had always been small. Small voice. Small gestures. Small business. He was just a distributor, small fish. I helped. I pushed. He was too gentle to do more, too scared. I never learned how to be. I pushed to get him to do more, I stepped up for him. I looked up everything in some attempt at understanding. But how much can you really understand without practical application? I tested, we tested. Doses measured by how much we felt it ourselves. You tell us what you want, what kind of high you wanted to ride and I had something already in mind. But I always wanted more. Harold was always so sweet. So I gave him everything he asked.
'Would you kindly.'
Yes.
Heroin was my idea. The one thing that my parents taught me that stuck with me after so long was to always aim higher. Keep reaching farther. We are never taught how to fall gracefully. I don't remember much past that point, it is just one slow march forward. His hand in mine, his head on my shoulder.
My sister nicknamed me Icarus.
And, oh, how my wings did burn.
He hadn't been feeling well for a year or two by then. Always sick, always stuck in bed. You can't willingly go into a hospital when you still have drugs in your system. You can't willingly to into a hospital when your boyfriend keeps shooting up because he's panicking and he has no idea what to do so getting high and forgetting is easier. Just. Being there is easier.
Softly, a distant voice trembling in the dark. Once strong arms, cold and weak. Diseased. 'Help'.
Yes.
'Please'.
Yes.
'Tonight'.
Yes.
The official charge was vehicular homicide. One lovely psychiatrist has it put down in a footnote somewhere that it was assisted suicide. You want to do all you can for the person you love. You want to give them everything. You say yes. Three year sentencing. A minor who had bad influences. First offence for anything. Pressured into drug use. Out on parole after a year. And recovery. Recovery is messy, painful, exhausting. But excessive stubbornness is not a bad trait. Not knowing your own limits is not a bad trait. Being Icarus.
Your wax wings can be rebuilt.
'Get better.' Jason.
Yes.
'Get me a drink.' Val.
Yes.
Give me the sun.
Yes.
Addiction.
Symptoms of addiction.
Cocaine.
Meth.
Heorin.
Substance abuse.
Detox centers.
Rehab.
Overdose.
Careless tracks left in open spaces but dismissed with a button. Just a curious kid. I had a free out. Just blame your parents. You're the youngest of seven, they were tired by the time you came along. All their hopes and dreams had been sown so you and the sister a year older than you were left to find your own ways. Just don't do anything stupid is all they advised. I think it became a competition to see who could get as close to that point as possible without going over.
She won.
I dove headfirst over the line.
I gave it a little wave as I passed it by. The countless psychologists after were appaled at my utter lack of selfpreservation. What was the fun in being afraid of dying? What was the fun in being afraid of living?
My sister, the one just before me, she knows the reasons. A hand clutching mine just before visiting hours were over, squeezing tight. Please. Please. Please. Please. Tell us why. Why? He asked. I obliged. That was always the way. He asked. I obliged. Conditioned like some video game protagonist. 'Would you kindly.' Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Softly, a distant voice trembling in the dark. Once strong arms, cold and weak. Diseased. 'Help'.
Yes.
'Please'.
Yes.
'Tonight'.
Yes.
I was seventeen. His age doesn't matter. Neither does mine but all the records on my file like to make a note that I was still technically under age. An impressionable minor. Fell in with a bad crowd. They underline the names of those I was friends with, points to their college classes, to their low GPAs, to their disciplinary infractions. Bad seeds. Bad influences. I took afternoon classes at the college. They made a game of seeing who could get the quiet high school kid to speak up first. His name was Harold. He said 'hello'. The back of his car was a very uncomfortable place but you don't really forget the first place you were with someone. 'Want to,' he says.
Yes.
He never talked much, neither did I. It was comfortable in that dusty living room, worn down couch, thread bare rug beneath our feet. My sisters tell me that the school called after a week. After two weeks. After three. They stopped after a month when I asked my brother to print out the forms for me, to forge signatures. A GED is just as good on paper. Just as good. I whisper that to him in bed, a chant as we come together again and again and again. I think maybe two or three of my siblings noticed my items dwindling out of a shared room until there were maybe just a few articles of clothing left. They didn't ask questions, I never provided answers.
He had always been small. Small voice. Small gestures. Small business. He was just a distributor, small fish. I helped. I pushed. He was too gentle to do more, too scared. I never learned how to be. I pushed to get him to do more, I stepped up for him. I looked up everything in some attempt at understanding. But how much can you really understand without practical application? I tested, we tested. Doses measured by how much we felt it ourselves. You tell us what you want, what kind of high you wanted to ride and I had something already in mind. But I always wanted more. Harold was always so sweet. So I gave him everything he asked.
'Would you kindly.'
Yes.
Heroin was my idea. The one thing that my parents taught me that stuck with me after so long was to always aim higher. Keep reaching farther. We are never taught how to fall gracefully. I don't remember much past that point, it is just one slow march forward. His hand in mine, his head on my shoulder.
My sister nicknamed me Icarus.
And, oh, how my wings did burn.
He hadn't been feeling well for a year or two by then. Always sick, always stuck in bed. You can't willingly go into a hospital when you still have drugs in your system. You can't willingly to into a hospital when your boyfriend keeps shooting up because he's panicking and he has no idea what to do so getting high and forgetting is easier. Just. Being there is easier.
Softly, a distant voice trembling in the dark. Once strong arms, cold and weak. Diseased. 'Help'.
Yes.
'Please'.
Yes.
'Tonight'.
Yes.
The official charge was vehicular homicide. One lovely psychiatrist has it put down in a footnote somewhere that it was assisted suicide. You want to do all you can for the person you love. You want to give them everything. You say yes. Three year sentencing. A minor who had bad influences. First offence for anything. Pressured into drug use. Out on parole after a year. And recovery. Recovery is messy, painful, exhausting. But excessive stubbornness is not a bad trait. Not knowing your own limits is not a bad trait. Being Icarus.
Your wax wings can be rebuilt.
'Get better.' Jason.
Yes.
'Get me a drink.' Val.
Yes.
Give me the sun.
Yes.
