Chapter 6
Narcotics help you to trick a fundamental component of life: time.
Lying in bed, only going to the kitchen to eat and to the bathroom to get rid of what I’d eaten, I didn’t feel the day slip by.
Before I knew it, it was Thursday, the day before the dinner I had to attend if I wanted to keep on living.
I still had no desire for any contact with the outside world. Then, like it was taunting me, my phone started to ring. It was Arthur.
I answered without thinking.
“God, Dante, did you ghost me?”
“Sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No.”
“What is it? Do you want me to come over?”
“No, I…” I couldn’t see anyone in that state. My pits reeked, my mouth tasted like rubber. “My roommates have people over.”
“Then come to my place at seven. I made lasagna. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Before I could say no, Arthur hung up. It’s fine, it’s no big deal, I thought.
I forced myself to get up and into the shower.
I stood under the hot water for a long time, trying not to think about anything.
I got dressed in front of the mirror and even felt a little excited because I was going to leave the apartment.
Without my friends or Cora around, there was a miserable energy radiating from every wall, every piece of furniture.
As I went to pick up my house keys, I thought about taking my bottle of Klonopin with me.
I swear it wasn’t calculated. I’d been on those pills for so long that I couldn’t bear the thought of not having them with me. They were my new best friends.
Arthur greeted me at the door with the same affection as always. He could immediately tell that I was in bad shape and tried his best to cheer me up. He led me to the table and put the lasagna in the oven, then opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“Here’s to you telling me what’s bothering you on the second bottle,” he toasted.
He smiled as he sipped. I listened to him ramble on for a few minutes—I don’t remember what he said, my mind felt like Jell-O.
He got up to check on the lasagna and left me alone at the table.
I looked at his glass and then the idea came to me.
Maybe it was already there, swirling around in the cauldron of my thoughts.
I acted quickly, almost without thinking: I opened two capsules and slipped the contents into his glass.
A few minutes later, Arthur left the pan of lasagna on the table and went to grab plates and silverware from the kitchen. I asked if he needed any help, but he declined. He served me a generous portion, and I told him how good it looked.
“I know my way around the kitchen,” he said jokingly.
Knife and fork in hand, I hesitated. Before I took my first bite, I looked at Arthur—a thirty-something nerd, a nice guy, who’d become my friend—and I concluded that I really was a big enough asshole to do it.
His neck was just inches away from me, all I had to do was reach out and slice my knife across his jugular.
I gripped the knife handle firmly, preparing to strike.
“I think it turned out okay this time,” he said, swallowing his bite and picking up his glass.
That one comment—as simple as it was—destroyed me. I dropped my knife on the table and slapped his wine glass before he could take a sip. It fell from his hands and crashed onto the table, staining the tablecloth. Arthur looked at me, bewildered.
“I’m a piece of shit,” I said, starting to cry without meaning to.
“Come on, man, don’t talk like that.”
I took a deep breath, staring at him. I couldn’t carry this burden anymore.
“I’m a bad person. It’s all my fault,” I said, and it felt like jumping off a cliff. “I helped kill your fiancée.”