Chapter 14 #2
I could feel eyes on me, and rightly so, since Italian was peering through the slot. I didn’t have the energy to even turn around and get a glimpse of the person who’d been feeding me and keeping me company, even though a steel door separated us.
“Hold up. I know what to do… Aye, Alexa. What can I do when a crackhead is going through withdrawals?”
“Crack?” I said, not sure he heard me until he chuckled.
“Damn, my bad, Mexi-mami. Hold up… Alexa. What can I do to help a person who is going through cocaine withdrawal?”
“Did you ask what you should do if a person is experiencing withdrawal from cocaine?” a robotic voice replied to Italian, loud enough that I could also hear.
“Yeap.”
“Okay. Someone going through cocaine withdrawal may experience fatigue, mood changes, and strong cravings. It can help to encourage rest, keep them hydrated, and support them in contacting a medical professional or addiction specialist.”
“Damn. Okay, so, she can’t take no Tylenol or no shit like that?”
“Over-the-counter options like Tylenol may help with headaches or body aches, but they won’t address withdrawal symptoms. A healthcare provider can offer the best guidance.”
“Aye, man. Ain’t nobody going to no doctors,” Italian said with an attitude, then sucked his teeth. “Damn. Alexa… How long does this shit last?”
“Cocaine withdrawal symptoms can begin within a few hours after the last use and may last several days to a few weeks. Some psychological symptoms, like cravings or mood changes, can last longer. I highly suggest contacting a medical professional.”
“Psychological? What you mean? She gonna start seeing shit?” he asked in a near-panicked tone.
“Psychological symptoms refer to changes in mood and thinking. These can include depression, anxiety, irritability, and strong cravings. Hallucinations are less common but can occur in some cases. I urge you to contact a medical professional. I cannot give appropriate diagnoses because I have no medical experience or clinical licensure.”
“Ummmmm,” I groaned as I hugged my knees. This robot was making me nauseous. I could feel my mouth begin to water, but I swallowed it down.
“Fuck all that! Yo’ ass was able to tell me how to sew up my homeboy when he got stabbed.
” I could hear the hesitation in Italian’s labored breaths.
“Alexa… Let’s just say hypothetically… A person is locked away to fight the withdrawal, how long should they be kept here?
Better yet, how long will it take them to get clean? ”
“Cocaine may leave the body within a few days, but withdrawal symptoms and cravings can last for weeks or longer. Recovery time depends on the individual. I cannot advise on confinement. It sounds like authorities are needed. I am now programmed to dial 9-1-1 at the request—”
“Hell nawl, Alexa! Don’t you call them folks. I said hypothetically. Shit!” I heard Italian sigh in frustration as he smashed his hand against his phone. “Fuckin’ phone betta not have called them people, on foe ’nem.”
Still on the floor, I couldn’t bring myself to move anymore.
Italian sounded so defeated, and I hated that I was the cause. My being here should not have caused any stress for anyone, especially Italian who had been nothing but kind to me.
“Aye, Solana… I got some people comin’ over today—just family. We gonna be upstairs, but if you ain’t up for hearing no muthafuckas stomp over yo’ head, I can cancel that shit. I gotta make some moves today while the sun out, but I promised big cuz, I’d come see ’boutcha.”
That robot wasn’t lying. I was just thinking about how kind Italian had been, but now, I wished he would leave me alone.
I didn’t care who came here or what he did in his free time.
He was free, and I was not. All I cared about was cocaína (cocaine), and since I couldn’t have that, nothing mattered.
“You can have your guests.”
“Aite. Aye, they ain’t gonna bother you. They gonna be upstairs. Matta fact, this shit off-limits. I ain’t puttin’ them in yo’ business.”
“It’s fine… I’ll be fine.” I did my best to say the words without shuddering. I wanted to assure Italian so that I could be left alone.
“Mexi-Mami—”
“Italiano… I am okay. Go.”
We sat in silence for a bit.
“Aite. My cousin ’nem cooking, so I’ll bring yo’ dinner down later. And you don’t have to eat cold shit. If you want me to warm up the food because it takes you a while to eat it, I will.”
“Comprendida. (Understood.)”
The slot slid shut. I waited until I could hear his footsteps receding and then attempted to move again.
I used all my strength and fought through the pain as I tried to stand.
That one motion hurt too much, so I planted my palms on the floor, got on all fours, and surged my knees forward.
Shio’s phone was on the floor near the wall before you entered the bathroom, so I grabbed it and continued on.
One knee forward at a time, I crawled, choking on my cries until I reached the cold tile of the bathroom.
I reached for the toilet and pulled my body to it.
I flipped the lid open and rested the side of my face on the seat.
My chest heaved, and everything I’d just eaten flew into the toilet.
The toilet bowl water splashed onto my lips and face, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t have the strength to care. All I could do was continue to hurl my insides out, even though it caused great pain to my body and my spirit.
Bwwwwaaaaaaaaah
“Por favor... haz que pare. (Please… Make it stop.)”
Chunks of digested pancakes sloshed into the water violently.
It smelled terrible coming out, though it was mouthwatering going in.
I continued to throw up until nothing was left.
The dry heaving was just as painful as the aches of needing cocaína (cocaine).
Each time my chest caved in, I felt my body give itself to the purging.
Using the sleeve of my sweater—the same one I’d had on when I was dropped off—I wiped my face and felt around for the handle to flush the toilet.
Not having the energy to move further away, I recoiled as the mist hit my face.
I would need to scrub my skin, but that wouldn’t be for a while; at least not until it no longer hurts to breathe.
I’m so stupid. How did I let him catch me? I should have never done those extra lines. I should have just stayed in Mexico. At least if I were with the Rodríguezes, I’d more than likely still be able to get high. I just need one more bump. One more line. God, I need some cocaine.
Shio, baby, why are you doing this to me? Oh God, it hurts. Death has to feel better than this. Yes, that’s what I need. I need to just end it all.
With my face still hanging off the toilet seat, I closed my eyes, trying to silence the voices. I was hearing them all at once.
These can include depression, anxiety, irritability, and strong cravings, echoed in my head.
Those scary thoughts I’d just had proved that the robot was right again.
I’d felt a lot of emotions over the years, but never had I thought of killing myself.
The problem was that I was not addicted to cocaína (cocaine), so while the withdrawal was hurting me physically and mentally, I knew I would be fine using the drug again once Shio let me go.
Using my arms, I tried to lift myself away from the toilet. I underestimated my lack of strength because they dropped to my sides, hitting something. Lifting my head as far as it could go, I grabbed the object and used the momentum to scurry back from the toilet and dropped against the wall.
The brown, rustic notebook I’d swiped from Shio’s office was the object I’d hit.
I had forgotten I’d taken it from Shio’s office, and because my leaving was against my will, it’d come with me inside this locked room.
I’d only showered once since being here, but I’d used the toilet plenty of times without paying attention to what was on the side of it.
Opening the book, I landed about halfway through. The writing was italicized, and although it was difficult to read, I was able to make out many of the English words.
Today, I failed my son.
Stopping at that line, I crinkled my nose. Shio didn’t have a son; at least not one that I knew about.
You didn’t know he had a daughter either, my inner voice spoke to me again.
I shook off the distraction and looked back at the writing that resembled something my baby brothers wrote. I needed something to keep my mind off the pain, and right now, this was it.
Today, I failed my son. I’ve failed him since the day he was born, but today was different. I fear he will never view me the same. He will hate me forever.
Not really understanding whose words I was reading, I went back to scan the pages toward the beginning of the book.
The first few pages were unclear writing, with a lot of scattered half-thoughts, lists, unfinished sentences, and sketches of people.
The drawings were just as bad as his penmanship, and I wondered why Shio, or whoever, wrote so badly.
The next page I flipped to had a long list of what the author labeled, Possible Autobiography Book Titles.
The suggestions were very specific, and as I scanned them, I questioned whether the author was drunk when writing them.
Raising a Son Who Barely Understood, The Things I Got Wrong, A House Full of Loud Silence, Before He Learns to Hate Me, and Notes from a Father Who Never Fathered were the first five, and I thought the titles were catchy.
However, I was still unsure of whose book this was because it couldn’t have been Shio’s.
Flipping to the next page, I came across a droplet of blood smeared on it. The writing was cleaner and more legible than the first few pages I’d seen. I shifted my body to get as comfortable as possible. I was intrigued enough to read more.