"One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night." - Margaret Mead, American cultural anthropologist.
It wasn't long before I found a bag of cocaine left behind - part of me thinks he left it on purpose so that I wouldn't go through withdrawals but I know it was on accident. He wouldn't leave without taking all of his precious substances with him - he went to rehab and watched his mom die just to come out of it back where he started, addicted and living a terrible lifestyle. He wouldn't leave shit for me, he's too caught up doing whatever the hell he wants to care about others.
Maybe that's too harsh. He probably cares about me on some level - convinced himself that my condition is all his fault, which is only partly true, and feels the need to clean it up by buying me food so I don't starve and die. He would never leave anything for me, though, he's told me many times he didn't want me on drugs.
He didn't want me on drugs yet he gave them to me and made me a fucking narcotics abuser like him. He didn't want me in this lifestyle but he told me that selling illegal substances brings him money and could get me anything I wanted. Paraded it around and danced on the cash while putting pills in each other's mouths.
He's a hypocrite.
The bag left behind is huge and has enough to keep me high for weeks in case Harper didn't come back.
Maybe I shouldn't have waited for him - perhaps the fight we had was enough for him to leave for good. He probably thinks I hate him or that he's no good for me, which he isn't but I'm no good for him, either. I waited and waited, hoping that I hadn't just pushed away the only person that could stand to be around and that he would come back.
He didn't.
It's been one week now and I haven't cleaned up the spilled milk. It smells terrible but I refuse to touch the moldy dairy. It's gross and I don't have enough energy. It's hardly on my mind when I'm high, anyway. I have to focus on drowning out the whispers.
"She's not going to make it. You have to go to her. Run run run."
"Time is running out and you're doing nothing."
"Your father would be so disappointed."
"You'll regret this when she's dead."
They chat until I inhale the white powder. They shut up quickly and don't speak again. Drugs are magical - I don't even have to murder insects anymore because shoving crack up my nostrils does the trick.
Maybe I should listen to their warnings - then again, they aren't really warning me of anything because they can't actually talk. Ignoring them is good for me. Perhaps if I ignore them long enough their voices will be gone forever.
I inhale deeply as I take another line. I haven't been to school in weeks and I'm surprised the board hasn't called the police to check in on me. Maybe if the cops came they'd bring me to a group home in a city far away from this town. At this point, it's almost a dream to leave.
Maggie would be disappointed if she knew what was happening. First, she'd tell me not to take drugs that could possibly kill me because she's the only person that truly, deeply cares about me, second she would try and clean up my mess of spoiled milk because she's too generous, and then she'd cry that Mom abandoned us. She'd weep until there wasn't anything left and then she'd make up some kind of excuse as to why she left. She'd say that mom was in a ditch somewhere, dead, because her being dead is the only reason that she wouldn't come home to her children. No loving parent would just-
"What's all this?" I hear from the kitchen.
Mom.
It can't be Mom. This has to be a trick. Another voice I'm hearing.
"Rosalie?" The voice calls out to me. I walk contemplate whether or not to go and check if it's really her - if it is, I don't want to see her, and if it isn't then the coke isn't doing it's job and I need more of it. I decide quick to head out and immediately I know I'm hallucinating things. Mom is here, standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hands at her hips, and her lips pursed. "What is all this mess?"
She isn't real. She can't be. She should be dead in a ditch or living with some deadbeat alcoholic that gave her a place to stay after she left her own children.
I'd prefer her to be dead than in the house.
"I leave and you trash the place?" She's angry. She has no right to be angry as I didn't think she'd ever come back and the mess wasn't a problem. She has no right to be here at all. "What's that smell? It smells like rotting milk, did you spill it everywhere and not clean it for, what, months? Why didn't you drink it?"
She's mad over the fact that I spilled dairy?
"Answer me," she demands. It's then I realize that I just can't be hallucinating - she's not looking into my eyes. She never does. I'm sure if I imagined her she'd be slightly more polite and make eye contact.
"Where did you go?" I ask. I have to ask that question first - for all I knew she was living with some meth addict who claimed to hear voices... like me.
"There's mess everywhere," she huffs. She takes her hands off of her hips and walks around the table to examine the mess around the room. She's judging me for the clutter and disorder that the house is in since she left. She shouldn't be judging me for anything, it would be a menace. I'd lose my shit and run away if she told me to my face that she was judging me for anything.
"That's not an answer to my question," I point out. I don't want her to just pay attention to the rotting food and garbage and not tell me where she's been for weeks.
"I was staying with a friend," she snaps. What a disappointment I didn't get more details about this 'friend' - I'm sure I would have approved of her staying with them over being here during her family's time off need. "Whereas you clearly have been rooming with Oscar The Grouch."
"Oscar The Grouch?" What does a Muppet have to do with my living conditions?
"He lives in the garbage," she shrugs, "And has seemed to pass on his living conditions to you. You're a slob."
"I can do what I want with the house," my voice is shaking. I'm shocked that she's here. I don't understand why she came back. "You left."
"And you survived didn't you?" She asks.
"Hardly," I feel faint. I should sit down. I have to sit down or else I'll pass out and mom will think I'm in a terrible state. I'm not. I'm on cocaine, a magic drug, I can take on the world, I don't need her for anything.
"Oh, you hardly survived?" Mom laughs. "You have food, water, clothes, school, and Dallas. That's all you need."
"Excuse me?" I'm not sure exactly what to say. I don't feel on top of the world anymore - I want to run and hide and leave mom to rot here like the milk I threw. "I didn't go to school because I'm psychologically not okay and everyone was pitying me-"
"Why would they pity you?" She asks. "They never noticed you before, they shouldn't now."
"Thanks for that shitty comment, mom, I really needed that."
"Don't be sarcastic with me," she warns.
"Dallas and I had a falling out. We don't talk anymore, so no, I don't need him for survival. I was starving, so I didn't have food until his cousin-"
"Dallas's cousin?" Mom interrupts. "The one who just got out of rehab? His mom told me about him, you better not have been with him."
"Why not?" I ask her. "You left, you clearly didn't want anything to do with Maggie or me anymore, so you shouldn't try and dictate who I do and do not hang out with."
She's suddenly in front of me, her hand under my chin, forcing me to face her. For the first time in what seems like years, she looks at me in the eyes.
"Your pupils are too big for your irises," she has the look of pure disgust on her face as she stares at me. "You're impaired."
"You shouldn't care," I swat her hand away. I don't want her grimy hands all over me, contaminating me with whatever diseases she might have caught while she was away.
"I don't care," she clarified, "That's why I left in the first place, I didn't care anymore. My husband is never coming back to me and taking care of inconsiderate children that take after him so much... I left. I didn't want to be here anymore, not after what happened to Maggie. It was too much. It would have been a shit show. She's not even my kid."
"What?" I didn't want to believe what the doctor had told me, but it seems like mom is confirming it.
"She's adopted," she says. "I never wanted her, your dad did. I don't want to be here, this was a mistake, I'm sure you can fend for yourself."
"Then why did you come back?" I demand to know. I deserve to know.
"Because," she sighs, "Maggie is dead."