twenty one

The first time I made a year clean, I was sixteen years old. It was March, rainy and awful, but we’d scored a weekend round yours, a Friday night soaked in teenage revelry and cheap cider and fags. My girlfriend had brought weed. We hunched in the corner of our graffiti-streaked car park - for it was ours, and we would reclaim the walls from council mandated whitewash with Sharpied cocks and half baked political slogans come next month -  and blew smoke in each other’s faces, coughing and stumbling and laughing. 

My girlfriend had made cupcakes. Each piped with a different color of the rainbow flag, they sat in a circle in the old Quality Street tin. My teeth stained red, hers, bright blue. We kissed, and I imagined our spit turning purple. You mock cringed before flashing an orange smile, and called us your favorite dykes. We called you our favorite fag, before I pulled out my cig tin and shot you a wry smile. ‘You might have competition’. Your cat came in while we watched Rocky Horror, you drunkenly sang Time Warp at him, and we burst out giggling again  - I had made it. 

We had made it. 

You told us to shut up in case your mum woke up. 

***

The twenty-first time I relapsed, I was eighteen. We’d been clear of our hometown for six months. You’d been waiting to get on T for eight. You found me, curled up in the bathroom, and carried me to the sofa. I put so much effort into never letting you see me use when we were fifteen. I didn’t leave my house for a week when you insisted on picking me up from the station when I was coming down in Year Ten. I was so embarrassed. My mum thought I had anorexia, with no appetite and all the hoodies and constant sleep. You placed a blanket over me. You thought I couldn’t hear you. You cursed. You cursed a lot. Said sorry, but I’m not quite sure why. You asked me where I’d got it from, that you’d kill them, that it would hurt and be bloody and brutal and violent. You cried. You never cry. I’ve always wondered if you were really that violent, or if you just played it up for the masculinity. I remember thinking, ‘I’m sorry. The first needle to enter this flat should’ve been for you, full of testosterone and promise and a new future.’ Instead it was full of regret. It was the very essence of our teenage repression. I was thirteen again, shaking out withdrawals and crying. I apologized in the morning, but I didn’t feel bad enough to tell you everything. 

***

The second time I overdose I am twenty one. 

I sit hunched over a wad of tinfoil in a stranger’s bathroom. 

I feel thirteen again, raw guilt and confusion. I have never done this before. The comfort of the feeling is overshadowed by the terror of unfamiliarity of the method of delivery. 

I look at my body, then at hers. 

Revulsion. 

I look at my wrist, the stick and poke tattoo my then-girlfriend and I got when you got excited that summer with a fresh bottle of India ink and sewing needles. Our initials bleed into an unreadable mess, ink spreading under the skin. My sleeve falls over it. 

I blink back tears, watching her smile over at me. She looks like my dealer did, when I was fifteen, and my parents were divorcing, so I slept round his. She looks terrifying. 

I text you that I am sorry. 

***

The first time you try my phone that night, it is 6.30pm.  You pace up and down outside the library, clinging to the two bars of reception you get in the periphery. Neither of us have slept a night in the flat since I relapsed - #22, a year, four months and twelve days clean. You walk to our flat, change your jacket and say hi to the cat. The milk is nearly finished and the last of the pasta sauce is gone from the freezer. At least I’ve eaten. 

You text back, asking if I’m only apologising for finishing your pasta sauce. You keep hoping. 

The second time you try my phone, it is 7.20pm. You hang up after ordering pizza, and your finger hovers over my contact name. It rings twice, then goes to voicemail. You call the delivery number again, change your order to pepperoni. 

There is no point in ordering vegetarian if I won’t be there. 

I can pick it off in the morning. 

You keep hoping. 

The fourth time you try my phone, it is 9.45pm. You drain the rest of the vodka and pocket the pack of Marlboros I left on the counter. The cat looks up at you for more food. 

I can feed him tomorrow, when I get home.

You keep hoping. 

You catch the first bus into town.

The ninth time you try my phone, it is ten minutes past midnight. You are three bars down, shitty music thrumming through your veins. It goes to voicemail, and you silence the phone, slipping it into your back pocket, beckoning green eyes into the bathroom. You clear your throat, and throw out another line. Your voice sounds how you always thought it would. You are five months on T. 

The tenth time you try my phone, it is quarter to one. Green eyes stands at the door while you shoot back the remainder of the whiskey. It is cheap, and sharp, and it burns, washing down the salt and saliva. You offer him a cigarette and slip outside, standing ever so slightly away from him as you ring me again. Voicemail. 

You light his fag. 

I will call back in the morning. 

You keep hoping. 

***

The last time I think about you, it is 3am. I am three minutes from death. I reach for my phone, glancing at the 24 missed calls from you. 

I press my phone to my chest, and hope you can feel it.