Wrapping Up the Chaos
Kaze
Two days.
It took Tommy two fucking days to send me the pick-up and drop-off locations for the package.
Now I’m standing in my bathroom, sweat dripping down my back like guilt I can’t wash off. My hands tremble, gripping the edge of the sink as I stare into the mirror, and see my bloodshot eyes. My jaw clenched tight. A mirage of a man trying to look like he’s in control, failing miserably.
Today is the day.
The day I’ll be free of my bad choices. Free of the stains of my decisions.
The day I’ll be ready for her.
I say it aloud like a prayer, like maybe if I speak it enough times, it’ll become true.
It’s just another job.
Just another fucking job. And the last one. Hopefully.
I keep chanting that in my head, like a rhythm I can cling to, but the silence that follows each repetition fills me with doubts.
Well, let’s go. Enough running away from what needs to be done.
I snatch my house keys from the desktop table, then head for the nightstand where my bike ones usually stay.
As soon as I open the drawer, I see something I really wished I didn’t have to see today.
The little white pills Tommy gave me. Still there, nestled on top of some papers and other stuff like they belong.
Why the fuck did I kept that shit?
For a non-addict, it’s simple. It’s a choice—a matter of willpower.
Just say no, walk away, be strong. But for someone like me?
It never feels like a choice. It feels like survival.
Nobody gets addicted to the pills themselves, not really, you get addicted to the emotions they provide, or the absence of emotions altogether.
Using isn’t just about getting high; it’s about escaping something, or chasing something you can’t quite name.
Everyone has their reasons, but in the end, we all end up in the same place: stuck in a war inside our own heads, where we’re both the hostage and the executioner. The worst part?
We start missing the thing that’s killing us. We begin calling it comfort. We tell ourselves ‘just this once’, even though we know damn well there’s no such thing.
Looking at them now, I feel enthralled.
Temptation doesn’t knock, it kicks the door down. My pulse spikes, my skin prickles, and I can already feel the burn of calm it promises sliding down my throat.
And yeah, I know it’s a lie. I know exactly how this ends. But I still consider.
It would help me, right?
Today, it would help me silence the screaming in my head, stop the endless loop of worst-case scenarios and buried regrets, help me not think.
This would help me go through the fucking day without much thought…
But then, there’s her. Always her.
Her laugh. Her eyes. The way she looked at me made me feel like I could be someone worth saving.
Her.
People think us, addicts, are weak. Selfish. Broken.
Maybe they’re right. We are. But what they don’t see is the fight, the constant, brutal fight we have with ourselves just to, at least, try.
Every hour, being clean is a battle no one claps for.
Every refusal is a scream behind gritted teeth.
Because we know the difference between right and wrong.
We feel it in our bones every time we come crashing down.
And usually in those times, comes the questions and the regret.
Why did we do it to ourselves?
Why did we try it in the first place?
Why did we come back for more?
And then, we remember all the whys and feel like doing it all over again.
But not this time, because this time there’s her.
She deserves more. She deserves better.
I want to deserve better. I want to deserve her.
She’s why I’m trying. She’s why I have to make it through this without slipping.
I leave the house and hop on my bike.
I ride to my pick-up point to grab the last package I have to deliver.
One last job.
But I never left the pills behind.
* * *
The pickup went smoother than I expected.
It was some fancy-ass restaurant downtown, all marble floors and waiters who look like they judge you just with their eyebrows.
I didn’t ask questions; I never do. Tommy’s contact handed me the package in a discreet envelope-sized bundle, sealed tight in plain brown wrapping—the kind you see in crime dramas and never want to be responsible for in real life.
I didn’t open it. Didn’t even hold it too long.
Curiosity is a luxury I can’t afford. Not in this line of work.
I slipped it into my backpack and exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for hours. One step down. One more to go.
I fish my phone out of my jacket and see that K. tried to reach out, so I send her a quick message.
“Got something to do. I’ll call you later.”
It’s vague, too vague, but I can’t bring myself to explain more now.
Maybe one day.
It’s early afternoon, the sun perched high, and the streets of Stormhaven are buzzing like they’ve got something to prove.
The city’s always loud around this hour, students from my college filling the sidewalks, laughter echoing off old brick buildings, local businesses spilling onto the streets with their cheap coffees and complicated conversations.
But I ignore it all. The package in my backpack is pressing against my spine with every step, like it’s reminding me I’m not done yet.
Just deliver it, receive the money, deliver the money, and you’re free. I remind myself.
Usually, handling the money part is the worst part. But not this time.
Maybe because now I do have something to lose.
Maybe because now, if I’m caught, it will matter. Because I will not see her for a long time. Because she’ll discover everything through someone else.
Fuck.
Can’t spiral now, Kaze. Keep your head in the game, asshole.
I parked a couple of streets over from the drop-off, just to be safe, and walked for a few minutes.
Unlike the glitzy spot from earlier, this restaurant is barely holding together, with paint chipped off the front door and a rusted-out vent coughing out weak steam above me.
It could be cozy, maybe, if we’re not looking too close.
But this is the kind of place where the floor creaks with secrets and the walls listen in.
I knock once. Then again, harder. No answer.
I search for a backdoor and end up in the alley behind the restaurant.
The place feels like it’s holding its breath, narrow, shadowed, boxed in by brick and steel. The kind of alley that forgets you the second you step into it. I knock on the metal door, hard and sharp. But nothing. No response.
“Come on, ” I mutter under my breath. My foot taps the ground like it’s trying to stomp down the anxiety clawing up my throat. I knock again, this time with the side of my fist—still nothing.
Every second drags. My skin feels tight. All I want is for someone to open the fucking door so I can drop the package and disappear. One final job, that’s what I told myself. One more and I’m done. But the longer I stand here, the more that promise starts to sound like a lie.
My shoulders ache from tension. My breath’s too shallow. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, heartbeat thudding hard in my ears. I can’t stop thinking about the pills in my pocket. About how easy it would be to take one. Just to breathe. Just to make the noise stop. The anxiety.
I knock again. Nothing.
And then, out of nowhere, the hairs on my arms lift. My breath catches in my throat. There’s a shift behind me, the kind you don’t hear so much as feel.
I move my helmet slowly, setting it down on a crate beside me. Eyes scanning the alley until I notice, three shadows stretch across the ground behind me, long and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world.
I fully turn and there they are.
Patrick. Mark. James.
Shit.
Of course, it’s them. The looks on their faces tell me everything I need to know. This isn’t a coincidence, and it’s sure as hell not a friendly visit.
Mark’s got that little tilt to his head, the one he uses when he thinks he’s got the upper hand. Patrick’s twitchy, always is, like he’s just waiting for someone to nod so he can swing. And James… James just looks like he wants to hit something. Preferably me.
I don’t even need to ask how they found me, because they immediately spill the beans.
“You know, your boy Tommy knows how to do business, ” Mark starts, smiling like it’s a game.
He fucked me over.
Motherfucker.
“What do you want?” I ask, straight to the point. There’s no time for anything else, no space for pretending this ends in anything but violence or a deal.
Patrick steps forward, spit already lacing his words. “You think you can humiliate me in front of that bitch and go back to your junkie life like nothing happened, Kaze?”
Ah, there it is—the real reason. Patrick’s always seething, always trying to cage the beast he pretends doesn’t exist. But it leaks out of him in every word, every glance, every clenched fist.
I know them well. Too well. They’re Tommy’s customers, yeah, but worse than that, they were mine too. I dealt to them more times than I can count. Partied with them. Got wrecked with them and made mistakes with them.
We didn’t cross paths much growing up, as we belonged to different towns, attended different high schools and came from different scenes, but we made the same kinds of bad choices. Chased the same hollow highs. Screwed up in all the same ways.
And now it’s all coming back like it always does. Every regret. Every reckless night. Every stupid fucking decision that led me right back here.
Regrets.
So many regrets.
“I have a deal to finish, boys. So if you’re just here because you don’t know how to behave yourselves in front of a lady and need to be re-taught the basics, I can pencil in five minutes later and teach you. Just not now.”
Maybe this is just my way of dealing with life, deflecting, joking, pretending I’m strong when really, I’m barely holding the pieces together.
But what was I supposed to do? Show fear?
Not happening. Even less when they called her a bitch.