Starts with a Match

Freedom and THC Don't Mix

Yesterday was too short. We didn't do much. Picked me up a rental. I got the day off, get today, the Fourth, off, too. We ordered pizza, watched some movies, had more of that sandalwood incense burning. I couldn't enjoy any of it. Was just waiting for today.

One last bye, see you in a week, the door closes, locks, and Toby's gone.

I stand in my thinking spot in the living room. I move in a circle and inspect my house. Then I stare at the door again. I think I whine. I'm a giant, useless dog waiting for his owner to come home.

They'll be back. They will, they said so. This isn't—isn't leaving like...like it's not a bad thing. They just want to visit a friend. I can face the nights alone. Maybe start up a card game with all the ghosts that'll visit me—

For fucks sake, Kevin, you've killed people, you've tortured, you can be without your security blanket-person for one goddamn week. It's fine. I'm fine.

I smack at my face and grunt and stomp for the kitchen to make coffee. Gotta get it together. Was totally good in June when they left, didn't care. No difference now.

There's gummies on the counter and a note from Toby. They didn't mention this before they left. Maybe they did. I wasn't listening to much that they said, too wrapped up in counting every freckle over their nose.

You can take these to help you sleep through the fireworks. But only have HALF OF ONE, Koop. I take one and I'm out like a light. It's your first time with these, start small. These are not to be taken lightly, okay? I'll see you in a couple days.

Yours, Toby

Yours. Yours, yours. They wrote it this morning. They'll be back.

I smile and take the note and put it in my sock drawer along with all the others. The letters give me flashbacks to Rustavi, but...in a good way, I think. Better than the flashbacks I'm getting from the fireworks outside, going off since noon.

Then I'm back in the kitchen, looking at the packet of gummies. Little cartoon printed on the label, face with a ditzy smile and one red eye bigger than the other with 'z's going up away from its head.

"Half of one, huh?" I mutter to myself, opening the resealable packet.

Smells like pineapple and mango or something. I reach in for one and pop it into my mouth. Tastes like sour patch kids. I turn the packet around to read the ingredients. THC, Delta 9. Dose is one full one. I snort and roll my eyes at Toby, wherever they are on the road on the way to Maisie. It's 15:50, they left ten minutes ago, should be hitting the highway by now. I'm massive, if they can handle one, I can handle one, I've got a good tolerance for alcohol anyway and...and...

I'm squinting into the bag. These are not Sour Patch Kids. I think I just ate a third. And I've got my fingers around two more.

"Oops..."

It's fine. I seal up the bag and put it away, and make some coffee, gritting my teeth to another razzle of fireworks exploding outside with the neighbors' kids. Makes the sutures on my chest sting.

Sitting on the sofa, I get curious and look up what THC and Delta 9 and all that shit means. When I smoked it once in high school, friend just called the damn thing 'weed', no extra letters and numbers.

I find the brand Toby has. Looks like other people are saying to start with half if it's your first time anyway—it's fine. I can drink Jim under a table and I know he takes THC to help him sleep, too.

It's fine, whatever. I'll pay Toby back for the ones I ate. Though. I'm not entirely sure how many I had. Was eating them like candy. I admit that was probably stupid—