Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Seven: Anesthesia

Late March, 1997.

A dark room. My living room. My self-imposed prison.

I'd done it again.

But this time I was done.

Done.

A flicker of blindness, lightning through the curtain. A flash of my surroundings again.

Tiny bags. Tiny white piles. Sharp, thin, shining metal and plastic.

Fuck up, fuck up, fuck up.

You fucking liar.

You fucking flake.

The last time. It was the last time.

I had enough for one more ride. A single last spin. A last trip, then I was done.

It was more than I'd usually shoot, but I wanted it gone.

Gone.

I'll be fine.

I've always been fine, even with a little extra.

I needed to get back.

He knew where I was, what I was doing.

I called. I talked. I kept my promise of communication, even if I bailed.

He was pissed.

I was pissed.

Life was nothing but a complication, a morass of sore feelings struggling to be expressed, only to be shut down in favor of running away.

It was too fucking much.

"I went with her today. I heard the heartbeat, ya know. It's...it's really in there. It's alive. I...I could hear it moving. It's fucking mind boggling."

Sneaking shots when he wasn't looking.

"Should I buy a crib and stuff? I don't...I donno what to do. Clothes? I mean, we don't even know what it is yet. What if I buy the wrong things?"

A stash of coke, tiny bumps here and there.

Change, change, everything was changing. He was even wanting to clear out a room, set it up for the kid, asking my opinion on wall colors, decor, shit I didn't care about and wanted to turn away from.