So, Yeah… I Don’t Do Drugs Anymore.

It was psychotic, manipulative, and incurred staggering consequences that I’m still dealing with. I caught myself wishing I was dead more than once; I damaged my relationship with my brother so badly that we haven’t spoken in over a year; I got myself involved with some shady people; I almost committed murder more than once; and I damaged my body so badly that I’ll be in pain for the rest of my life. There was a small part of me that still held on to the idea that it was all worth it just so I could see her again – just so I could hold her again, just to hear her laugh – but it’s gone now.<br><br>I hate this city. I hate the way the palm trees seem to whisper to each other when the wind blows through their leaves; I hate the smell of the ocean and the feeling of sand between my toes; I hate the trolly system and the sound of the bells that ring whenever they stop; I even hate the Architecture that changes from one side of the city to the other. I hated this city before I entered the rabbit hole that was heroin, I hated it more so when I was regularly using it, and I hate it even more now, after everything that happened.<br><br>Exactly why I still lived there, I have no idea. It was probably because my brother lived there and I didn’t want to be too far from him, but after what happened, I highly doubt he wanted anything to do with me anyway. <br><br>I had been sober for sixty one days when the withdrawals stopped and I finally felt semi-okay. I was in the middle of a pivot, deciding whether I wanted to make a change or continue to let the drugs destroy my life. That’s when I met her.<br><br>It was a typical Wednesday morning; I just finished a ten hour shift at the restaurant, I was broke, I was hungry, and I was in desperate need of my fix. I walked down a block, smoking my last cigarette while I searched for my dealer. <br><br>I saw him standing next to a lamppost, and was about to approach him when I heard a commotion behind me. I turned and saw four guys ganging up on a young woman. <br><br>I didn’t think. I charged the group, fists flying. I connected with two of them before the other two grabbed me. That’s when I saw her. She was small – petite, with long, black hair and piercing green eyes that seemed to cut through the night. She was holding a baseball bat above her head, and with one swift swing, she connected with the guy grabbing me. <br><br>The other three ran off in separate directions and she turned to me. “Hey, you okay?” she said.<br><br>“Yeah,” I replied, wiping the blood from my lip. “Thanks to you.” She smiled and I felt my stomach do flips. “My name’s Max.”<br><br>“I’m Kat.” she replied.<br><br>We talked for a few minutes before she asked me if I was high. I was taken aback, but she explained that she could tell by the look in my eyes. I told her the truth – that I was a heroin addict, and she smiled and asked me if I wanted to come home with her. <br><br>I wasn’t in any shape to make good decisions, so of course I said yes.<br><br>We took a bus out to one of the wealthier neighborhoods in the city, and Iáno idea how she was able to afford to live there, but once we were inside her house, she showed me a studio set up in one of the extra bedrooms and explained that she painted and sold her work for a living. <br><br>My mind was focused on the high I knew was waiting for me back at Frank’s corner, and as nice as this girl seemed, I wasn’t going to stick around for anything but the drugs that I knew she had on her. I had dealt with plenty of artistic types before – the majority of them did drugs – and I figured that this was my only way to get the money I needed without actually working for it. <br><br>But something about Kat seemed different – something that made my gut do flips. Maybe it was because she was so beautiful, or maybe it was because she seemed to care, but as we sat on her couch and talked about life – my life – I didn’t even think about heroin. <br><br>She was concerned about my health, and offered to give me some of her money so I could buy food with it. I refused and asked if she had any drugs I could buy instead. She told me she was sober herself, and I laughed and called her a liar. The look she gave me was so sincere, though – a look that told me that she knew exactly what I was going through – and for the first time in my entire life, I felt the trust I had for everyone around me (including my mother and my brother) slowly extending towards her. <br><br>So I took the money she offered, and we went to the store together. <br><br>Over the next few weeks, Kat and I grew closer. She had already begun to plan a way to get me into rehab – a way that didn’t involve me going to jail – and was making sure I ate whenever she saw me. I didn’t want her money; I felt bad taking it, and I knew that she needed it more than I did. But she wouldn’t let me pay her back, and I never saw her use a single drug the entire time I was with her, so I began to believe her. <br><br>I still used heroin; not as much as I used to – maybe once or twice a week – but enough that I wasn’t fully clean. When I told her about it, she was upset, but not angry. I could see it in her eyes – she knew that I needed the drug to function – that was how I felt – and she told me that she knew the feeling all too well. She then told me the story of how she got clean, and I listened as if I was under some sort of hypnosis. I believed her, and I trusted her, and for a short time, everything felt right with my life. <br><br>And then one day, I passed out in her apartment and woke up almost twelve hours later. She was gone, but her phone, wallet, and keys were lying on the coffee table next to me. There was a piece of paper on top of her phone with an address on it, along with the note: “Meet me here at four thirty. – K.” Next to the note was a picture of me and my brother that I had gotten from his house a few weeks before. On the back, it said: “You’re a good person, and you’re strong. Don’t let the drugs win.” <br><br>Something was off. I didn’t remember her leaving, or taking the picture, or even falling asleep. But by the time I actually started to panic, I was already panicking for a completely different reason – I still had almost eight hours until I had to meet her at the address she gave me, and I didn’t have enough money for a bus fair. <br><br>I picked up her phone to look at the time, and that’s when I noticed how many missed calls I had from different numbers. It must have been in the triple digits, and there were a few voice-mails from what sounded like dealers. I figured she had changed her number but not taken it out of her contacts, but then I noticed that there were a few calls from my brother. <br><br>I groaned in annoyance. He had no business getting involved in my life after he got me locked up so he wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore. <br><br>I thought back to the last time we spoke – a few weeks after Kat and I met – when I told him that I was sober and happy. He didn’t believe me and told me not to call him again until I got my life together. That was also the last time I spoke to him. <br><br>I had bottles of water and empty bags of food that Kat had bought for me scattered all over her house, but no bus fair. I knew there was no way in hell she’d be okay with me selling her phone, so I decided to pawn it instead. <br><br>I walked to the nearest pawn shop and approached the owner at the counter. I smiled and held the phone out to him. “I’m looking to pawn my phone for sixty dollars.” – sixty dollars would afford me the fair to get to the address and back, and it was the lowest price I believed he’d agree to. Phones were cheap, especially when they didn’t have any service provider. <br><br>But instead of him agreeing, he looked at me with horror in his eyes. “Where did you get this?” he growled.<br><br>I narrowed my eyes, taken aback. “It’s mine.” I replied.<br><br>But he just laughed and told me to get the fuck out of his store. I didn’t move. “Listen, pal, I don’t have time for your shit. Either give me sixty bucks or call the cops.” I growled.<br><br>That’s when he answered: “Listen, kid. If you really think this is yours, then you’re in a lot of trouble. This is a missing person’s phone. It was lost in 2011.” He paused as my face fell. “Look, kid. If you’re in some sort of trouble, I feel for you. But if you steal someone’s property, then you’re not some damsle in distress that needs saving. You’re a thief. So either give me the phone of your own free will, or get the fuck out of my store and don’t come back.” <br><br>I didn’t move from my spot, frozen in fear. Kat couldn’t have lost the phone in 2011 and been alive in 2018. There was no way. But here I was holding her phone, and it was the exact same make and model as