I.D.

Untitled Part 2

The morning light had barely crept through the blinds when the familiar rattle of an empty prescription bottle echoed in the silence. It was a sound that had become all too routine, a harbinger of the day's first struggle. I fumbled through the medicine cabinet, my fingers closing around the bottle labeled 'Brenda Sanders'—a name that carried the weight of memories and loss. The pill slipped down, a bitter reminder that I'd trade all the opioids in the world to have her back.

Opioids, they say, have three stages. They embrace you, deceive you, and then, they own you. I was teetering on the edge of that final precipice, where one becomes two, and meals are punctuated with pills. The label warns of nausea, but it omits the sensation of invincibility, the illusion that you're untouchable (and the apathy that wraps around you like a cloak).

I settled in, the console's glow a beacon for the impending online camaraderie.

Life had dealt me a hand that was both a blessing and a curse. The accidents—both of them—had left me financially secure but emotionally bankrupt. The house, paid for by tragedy, stood as a monument to a family that no longer existed. No siblings to share in the mundane joys of life, no parents to guide me. The closest thing to family were Bruce and Sam, my digital brothers-in-arms.

My choice of sustenance was as predictable as my routine: Mountain Dew and a smorgasbord of snacks. The selection was daunting, a trivial yet monumental decision. I settled for off-brand cheese puffs, the crunch a soundtrack to my solitude.

It was past 10:30, a birthday indulgence to sleep in, when Bruce's voice crackled through the speakers, "Could you eat any louder?" I chose silence over engagement, muting him to drown out the noise.

"We're going clubbing for your birthday, Luke," Sam's voice cut through the static, a mix of excitement and inevitability.

"You know, the birthday boy usually gets a say," I retorted, unmuting Bruce just in time to catch his tirade of expletives.

"It's settled. You're coming. Be ready by nine," Sam declared, the finality in her voice leaving no room for argument.

The internet, as unreliable as fate, chose that moment to falter. "I'm lagging, guys. I'll probably disconnect."

"Seeya, loser," Bruce's mockery was the last thing I heard before the screen went dark.

Alone with my thoughts, I faced the prospect of the evening. The idea of finding love, of believing in the magic of a first glance, seemed both archaic and essential. I rifled through my wardrobe, selecting an outfit that spoke of confidence I didn't feel—an all-white ensemble that was more armor than clothing.

The knock on the door was both a summons and a sentence. Bruce stood there, the embodiment of the night's uncertainties. The Neon Indian awaited, a chameleon venue that promised both escape and exposure.

Inside, the cacophony of music and chatter was disorienting. Sam, ever the operative, vanished into the crowd on a mission for liquid courage. I watched her weave through the masses, a dance of seduction and strategy that ended with her triumphant return, drinks in hand.

The memory of my first drunken escapade surfaced, a cautionary tale of youthful indiscretion and Four Loko. It was a night of naivety, of learning limits the hard way, with Sam and Bruce as both instigators and guardians.

The club, with its pulsating beats and shifting lights, was a world away from my comfort zone. Yet, there was solace in Sam's presence, a beacon amidst the chaos. Her beauty drew eyes, a distraction that allowed me to fade into the background.

But the heart wants what it wants, and mine yearned for Sam, despite the impossibility of it all. Bruce's claim on her was a line I couldn't cross, a boundary that confined my desires to the realm of silent longing.