Lepidoptera

Today’s the day I change. On how many mornings have I promised myself that, only to begin the following day with the same tired pledge? I’m like that movie character, doomed to my hamster-wheel life, longing to be freed by an act of courage I have no hope of pulling off. I’m just waiting for the right moment, I tell myself. The one when the pain of inaction tips the scales in favour of the agony of metamorphosis.  

The day begins, as it too often does, with a shrill call from my friend Marcia, or Marcy when I like her, which isn’t often lately. She’s rabbiting on about what a fun night, how fucked-up we’d got, who we’d gaslighted. 

“What you on about, bitch?” It feels like little people are mining for coal in my synapses.

 “Rose’s birthday piss-up, you know.”

“I don’t know Rose.”

“Sure you do. Met her at Dave’s art thing, couple weeks ago.”

“I’m over this. There was no bun fight for Rose, or anyone.” 

I cut her off. Can’t let on the whole night’s gone. Had I watched TV while polishing off a bladder of wine, or something wilder? I do recall waking in the early hours with a rough head, swallowing three Neurofen, crashing back to sleep, then cranking my eyes open in blinding sunlight to see I’m wearing knee-high red suede boots. When I pull them off, my feet are prunes. I throw the reeking wrecks in the bin. Maybe time to invest in one of those external catheters I muse, brewing myself a prairie oyster.

Woah, incoming. What’s the betting it’s Cathy, gagging to spill the beans on my late-night antics? I hate how she always leads with a dirty laugh, following up with a string of indiscretions I can neither confirm nor deny, until I lose my rag and shout "go boil your head", or words to that effect. “Thought you’d want to hear it from me first.” That’ll be the day. Bitch is a low-rent blabber bag. My transgressions will be all over town by lunchtime. 

“Gotta go, bye,” I say. The raw egg dances around my gut. A cursory sniff of my armpits sends me running to the shower. Fifteen minutes of hot water therapy later I check the microwave LED. Near enough. With a reassuring clink the cap pops off my first cold beer. One down, five to go before the real business of the day begins.

At one o’clock I hear Muz coming. He strolls in, helmet swinging from one crooked finger, drops himself onto a chair, raises his eyebrows. “‘Sup, girl?” 

“Same old,” I say, pointing with my head at the fridge. “Help yourself.”

He grabs a six-pack, sits back down, drops a baggie on the table. I get the mirror and the blade. Sweet anticipation flares in my gut. I stoop, sniff and let the rush lift me. “Let’s ride,” he says. I jam on the headphones, vault up behind, clamp my thighs to his hips. The Harley hurls us down the black tar ribbon, Quiet Riot exhorting me to get wild, as if I need an invitation.

Down at the Ballroom there's two guys we don’t know on the table. I give them the East Coast wave and chalk up our names, grab a couple of jugs and prop up the bar next to Muz. Nothing beats a game of pool with a buzz on, I think, scanning the room through jitterbug eyes. 

“Bro, time to move over,” Muz says to the guy racking up balls for another game. “Naff off, it’s ours for the night,” says the dead man, preparing to break.

“Not so fast, friend.” If there’s one thing Muz can’t abide, it’s an entitled out-of-towner.

“Who says?” Dude’s puffed up like a fighting turkey.

Can’t fix stupid. I toss back the dregs of my third jug, grab a cue, and jab the idiot hard where it hurts most. He folds like an empty suit. I hit him in the head, and he drops to the floor. Muzz puts the boot in. Our guy’s leaking like a split ketchup bottle. We hear sirens, pick up our helmets and split.

“Woohoo,” I shriek, hair streaming behind as we speed away from the scene. We fly past the pigs and I flip them the bird. Back at mine we drain the fridge, do some more lines, coma out.

It’s déjà vu all over again except I’m not in my bed, or anyone else’s. I uncross my eyes on concrete and stainless steel under glaring artificial light. The place reeks of piss and vomit. A hatch in the door bangs open and a hand shoves a tray through. I can’t eat, but I force down the mug of tar-coloured tea, then chuck it up into the shit-stained pan. My head splits in two. 

I lie on the rough grey blanket and close my eyes. One minute I’m quivering like a disturbed stick insect and the next I wake and, for a split second, imagine myself in heaven. It’s a real bed, with sheets and a blanket, in a white room. A nurse sticks a syringe in my arm. “Welcome back,” she says. “You’re in the hospital now, but there’s still a guard outside. Sorry.”

The woman undoes me. “You had a seizure,” she says. “Happens sometimes after too much alcohol.” She bends near, and I read her name badge. “You’re Rose.” I close my eyes to avoid her pity. I try to stop the tears squeezing out, but it’s no use. “Booze hag. Gotta quit,” I gasp. 

This is what rock bottom feels like. It’s not my first. In rehab I wasn’t like the others. No lock up or trips to the funny farm for me. “Not yet,” my therapist had said. I discharged myself once, got kicked out for smoking weed twice. I went straight from there to the pub. Now it's the last place I want to be. The empty cycle of booze, blokes and beds of shame sickens me. Plus I’m looking at jail time.

A few months later I shiver in the dock. “I’ll take your willingness to change into account, but this court won’t be so lenient in future,” says the judge. He slams down the gavel. “Two years. Use the time wisely.” The bailiff puts on the cuffs and leads me downstairs to the prison van. I haven’t touched a drop since the night with Muz. I hear he’s gone away for five years. I feel like a hermit crab that’s lost its shell, vulnerable as hell. I can only pray, to a God I don’t believe in, to give me a second chance.

Can there be anything more glorious than a life reclaimed? I’m out early on good behaviour, just in time for my first anniversary. The friends I’ve made at the prison meeting bring a cake with one candle. I’ve been asked to share first tonight. Just thinking about my good fortune makes me tear up, so I’ll be a blubbering mess, but I don’t care. 

Few make it this far, they tell me. “Don’t pick up the first one and keep coming back.” Once I would have mocked their hokey platitudes. Now I visualise myself as a golden butterfly, etched with vivid orange, fluttering above a blue haze of cornflowers. I’m so ecstatic I may never come back to earth. Who needs drugs when you can feel this high on life?