natalie

a piece for school a while back, with a very restricting word count maximum

He was sharp, and really funny. I loved the way he smiled at me from the side. He brought me a drink, just a cola and we sat with our feet in the pool. He would occasionally touch my feet with his as we talked. About movies and music, diet to philosophy the conversation flowed, I began to worry that I was giggling too much, his husky tones made every joke better, more intoxicating. I was quite glad my friend had talked me into this party, and I told him so. He smiled at his feet, he could have been blushing. Would I like to dance, I don’t think I could. His hand on my waist made me giddy. I was giggling at the bright colours of the party, I remember it was dark but I wasn’t worried by the bright lights. I was already leaning on him when everything went black. I don’t think anyone even noticed. My body fought the chemical, and I blinked wearily moments later, angry beyond description I threw away my drink, only now noticing the light fizzing in the cup. How could I be so stupid.  My dancing partner was startled at my apparent recovery but as I mentioned he was sharp, he covered my drink throwing outburst by twirling me around, making me even dizzier. All was black again.
It could have been hours, or minutes later. I asked him for more drugs, all I could feel was the pain. It was dark and my hands were tied. His hands were everywhere. I closed my mind, focussed on a song, drifting from song to song. Meditation can fix a lot of things; pain is a state of mind. Not this pain. It ripped into me then, sharp, jolting my bones.
It could have been hours, or minutes later. My tears mixed with my blood streaming over my torn body. He pulled from his pocket a syringe and grabbed my arm. Kicking and yelling I knew I was helpless. As he held my forearm I recalled a few police shows in which the cops had retrieved DNA from under fingernails. I tore at his wrist, only then noticing the masking tape over my fingernails. The syringe stung. I guessed some kind of sedative to addle my memory. I was wrong. He dropped close, his warmth chilling me, and whispered. His husky quietness asked but one question, had I ever tried heroin. A grand piano shattered inside my skull, the fallout was immense. I screamed until he had been gone forever.
What did I remember? His voice was rusty, but not with disuse. The police blanket was itchy, tickling my skin. It began to scare me, cockroaches and spiders all over my shoulders; they spread and my skin crawled with twitching bugs. I threw the blanket off but it didn’t stop. I pulled the blanket back to me, instantly cold. His breath smelt like coffee, I think I was expecting donuts. His face was kindly, but tired, and a bit angry. He spat out of the window and told me he hated the good-for-nothing miscreants that did this to helpless girls. Normally I would say I wasn’t helpless, but I was sitting on his back seat, eyes still bloodshot and damp after my trip, feeling obviously absent crawling bugs, the seat taking the blood dripping out of my saturated complimentary itchy blanket.
I don’t remember what he said next, and I woke up in a hospital bed. Blurred and watery, my vision swam before resting on red eyes and matted hair, registering the woman’s presence, the rest of me noticed the pressure on my arms and hips as she sat atop me. How long have I been using, her shoulders shake a little as she speaks, it’s a nervous tick, uncontrollable as her addiction. I grunt in misunderstanding, not trusting my throat to work with me. Drug ward, shoulders twitching with every breathy syllable, heroin wing.
I tell her I didn’t want to, she says I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need it. I try to be subtle, she doesn’t take the hint, she won’t leave. I ended up telling her everything, she tells me I’m lucky. I was almost too afraid but I asked her for her story. Her brother loved it, she loved it, inheritance paid for it, no danger, no violence, just vein-throbbing joy. I had to ask. Why did she think I was lucky? Her answer made sense in a twisted, twisted way. She thought he must’ve thought I was so pretty he didn’t have a chance unless he forced it.
Flattering as that may be, I told her, what if he just likes causing pain? Then you’re better off without him, she slapped my thigh and clambered to her bed.
Do I want it again? Her voice scratched the whisper into my ear. Did I? It felt like flight, reality blurred and sadness just a memory. Effortless release, no pain. It hurt and I was scared until he gave it to me, and despite the memory of his spit, his rough hands and growling, sick smile I was relaxed due to the memory of the freedom. I looked at my arm, my vein was slightly more prominent and as I stared I became more aware of it, the vein seemed to throb, it was painful but I knew it didn’t hurt. The illusion made me crave the joyful injection.
Yes. My voice croaked and seemed to echo in the sterile, lime green room. No. Voice still creaking I pulled myself up. I suddenly felt sick. The girl in the other bed scrunched her lime green sheets as she laughed, shoulders violently mobile. She laughed until she heard my vomit hit the toilet water. Apparently, in her experience, heroin didn’t induce barfing fits four days after a hit.
My name. Rumbling into the pale lime green bathroom. Open my eyes, white of the toilet bowl, white of my hands, white cistern, white tiles, white coat. He has my test results, his vibrating voice punctuated with a wave of a lime green clipboard. It could have been more than just heroin, his eyebrows managed concerned and condescending at the same time, we wanted to be sure. He paused for quite a while, probably only a minute but I lost the rhythm of his voice and the room began to tilt. I watched my regurgitation sucked down the toilet and the explanation of his facial expression hit me. His voice synchronised with my shocked resounding thought, thundering in my head and released by his bass vocal cords. Pregnant.
My roommate’s bloodshot eyes matched her fingernails as she clutched the doorframe. Tangled hair hanging perpendicular to her temple, tendons in her neck prominent as she peeked in. Pregnant. My whisper sent more of my stomach contents into the toilet bowl. The flush hid her footfall and my eyes were wide, and then wet, when I felt her hug me. I didn’t know her, we had very little in common and I would most probably never see her after our stay in this room. We sat, legs sprawled and eyes red, in each other’s arms on the bathroom floor for two days. Sleeping and eating together beside the toilet we refused to let go. She was real beside my pain, I was real beside her need. I knew her better than anyone else.
She was taken away from me. Rehabilitation. My bed was moved. More accommodating. Ultra sounds, vitamins, scans and monitors. I never saw her again. I named my child after her, a beautiful girl, seven pounds, six ounces. Natalie.

Author's Note

it's short, rushed, do you think it's alright?

Reviews

[Alexia Gray]

It does feel rushed when reading it and the tempo is quick but that might have been you intention. It was confusing in some cases as to what's actually happening but that probably comes with the fast pace of the story, for instance the subject has gone through a whole pregnancy and labour in practically four sentences. Despite all this, the actual plot is a good one, well done.