I'm getting out of here

That damn scratching grated against my ears. I loathed that sound, the sound of wasted seconds as I repeatedly tried to jam my key into the lock. The shaking was manageable most times, but it was shit like this that made me curse the burn that scorched my throat and fucked me up day after day. This fucking lock was the only thing standing in the way of another wasted night spent wasted.

I hated that ever-growing pile of bills by my door. I kicked over two more, unsure if they were for rent, utilities, unpaid parking tickets, or whatever else. When the next paycheck came in I’d grab a random one from the bottom of the stack and toss a few bills their way. It surely wasn’t going to be much, but it was enough to keep the collectors away.

I left the pile behind me and walked towards the kitchen. As usual, it was fairly clean save for a handful of empty bottles. Well, several handfuls, and if the hands were owned by giants. Fine, at least thirty littered the floor and countertops. But other than that, clean, immaculate, sparkling kitchen.

I never cooked, never learned how to. I wrenched open my freezer and pulled out one of the many hot pockets I designated as the sole menu item. Into the microwave. Five minutes. Take it out. Wait for four minutes for it to cool down. Give up a quarter-way through and take gasping bites as I willed my way through the pain.

No plates, no utensils. Just a napkin I swiped from the taco stand on my walk home from work and the piece of cardboard that came with my meal. Into the trash, and not a single piece of evidence is left.

See? Clean and efficient.

Work was a pain today, and I deserved a drink. Abigail droned on and on about the broken air conditioning in this August heat, and if I cared enough I would’ve told her that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she’d shut her mouth and stop blowing hot air all over the place. Instead I sat quietly behind the counter and stared at my phone, pretending to look at the news but really just hoping she’d take the hint and bother some other bastard. 

I cracked open a bottle of vodka, my drink of choice. None of that tequila or whiskey bullshit; they tasted like shit. This, however–wonderful. I grabbed the fifth and pressed it against my lips, taking a whiff of the good stuff. It smelled like a good night’s sleep.

Before I could tip the bottle any more, my nose crinkled at the smell of weed that invaded my apartment. I hated that smell. That wasn’t the smell of a good night’s sleep, not the smell of inner peace and quiet, not the smell of the quelling of my tremors. It was the smell that prefaced the soon-to-be broken promises of, “I’m California sober now,” (we weren’t in California), “so I threw all the other shit out and blocked my plug. No more of that shit.”

I believed it the first fifteen times. I counted. I cataloged each disappointment that wet my pillow and kept me awake, mumbling to myself and praying to Buddha, God, the Universe, and whatever else I could think of for this to end.

Did it end? I don’t know. I left before I could find out.

I angrily set down my bottle and went over to slam the window shut. Once, twice, three times, because the piece of shit was broken and the landlord had been ignoring me for three weeks. “Out of town” my ass, as if I couldn’t hear him fucking his wife above me at two in the morning. I’d have to settle for it being slightly ajar. 

I went back over to my bottle and dragged us to the living room. I took a deep breath and was pleased that the smell didn’t permeate this deeply into my apartment. Finally, I could start my relaxation and rest.

As the first drops of liquid slid down my throat, I gave thanks that I wasn’t like her. I didn’t have another person here with me, sullenly peeking around the corner as I destroyed myself. No, I was alone, and I didn’t do any of that drug bullshit. I was practically like any other 29 year old man having a nice little drink to unwind after my duties as a corporate slave. 

I wasn’t like her.

The more I drank, the less I saw her face. The harder it burned, the less I remembered the feeling of catching her passed out against the couch, a dirty needle littering the stained carpet. I loved that descent into numbness, where I was just mindlessly floating like a bird gliding high above. I slouched back against the couch and let out a deep sigh, propping my feet on the coffee table I snagged from the rubbish outside. I let the bottle rest against my lips and my free arm drape over my quickly-filling belly.

Nothingness. Absolute bliss.

Fuck.

Whoever was smoking earlier was really going at it now. That nauseating, suffocating smell tore through my bliss like a high-grade steak knife, and I cursed the landlord for being an asshole and not fixing my window.

I’m getting out of here.

I painstakingly ripped myself from my place of comfort and made my way towards the door. With the liquor now in my body, locking my door was much easier now. In the back of my mind, I patted myself on the back for remembering to lock it as I practically ran down the stairs. 

I’m getting out of here.

Of course, I didn’t forget my trusted friend. It made multiple trips to my mouth as I ran through the city. I glanced at it and realized in dismay that I only had three gulps left. Three! I tried my best to split the three gulps into six. I needed to savor it. 

My run slowed to a trot, then a slouched, staggering walk. I just kept going, one foot in front of the other. On and on and on and on until I couldn’t walk anymore. I knelt to the ground and threw the empty bottle to the side. 

With a start, I realized that it had shattered. Shards of glass spread before me like a million little friends. Odd, I thought. Was this not dirt that I knelt upon? How did it break? I swiveled around in the mud and tried to look for the offender. Who laid hands on the corpse of my trusted friend? 

Finally, my eyes settled on a block of stone. I crept closer, unaware of the pieces of glass that made their home in my skin. My eyes traced the words etched in the gray, and through the numbness I started feeling recognition, and through the recognition I felt pain. It was a familiar pain.

That’s right.

I guess it did get better. Unless the angels made it a custom to give their new entrants a hit of meth, I think she’s better off now. It did get better, it did.

I leaned my head against the tombstone.

Like all those years ago, I laid down and let the disappointment run down my muddied cheeks and into the ground. Only this time, I didn’t know who I was disappointed in.

I’m getting out of here.

I’m getting out of here.

I’m getting out of here.