Sunday, March 6, 2011

Stopped

I opened the faded red door with a broken metal knob. Smoke slapped my face rudely and I should have walked out. I want into the main living room and dead eyes greet me. Some say welcome to their misery, others say run the other way. I looked around and didn't see who I was looking for. I walked in the bedroom and to the left of the bed, next to the bed, on the floor, she laid motionless. I checked for a pulse, there's one. I lifted her over my shoulder and walk back towards the faded red door. None of the dead eyes look at me again. Walking down two flights of stairs into the apartment complex parking lot, she wakes, "put me down," she murmurs. Before I can get her to the ground, she vomits, missing my shoes by a foot or so. Keeping her from become spoiled by the spillage I tossed her over my shoulder again. She said something part inaudible, part profane, I ignored it and kept walking to the car. As I put her in the front seat and put on the seat belt, she said "I need something to drink." I took some quarters out of the cup holder and walked over to the soda machine. She got diet, because I said so. I got in the car and turned the key. She put her hand on my leg, and I see the needle marks on her arm. "I know you hate me but I love you for this." She doesn't know what love is, she's too stupid, selfish, and self absorbed. She's also wasted. She never touched the soda, and I decided to drive to the emergency room. the needle marks tell me I should. I know drunk, I know pot high, this is different. It takes 15 minutes to get to the hospital and neither of us speak. More is said by the silence. As I removed her from the passenger seat, she vomits again. This time she gets some on both of us. "I am so sorry. I'll never do this again, " she slurs. She's a liar. I know she is, and so does she. Finally, we get to the front desk, checked it, and they put her on a gurney. I find a restroom to clean up. The mirror is cracked in the restrrom. This makes me laugh, uncontrollably. Finally I stop and start to cry. What happened to her? What happened to me? I punch the cracked mirror and it cracks some more. I walk toward the front desk, and the person working hands me a clipboard with papers to fill out and says "they're working on her in room 8." As I open the door, there's a tube down her throat and a black substance coming out of her mouth from the tube. They pumped her stomach. Part of me hoped she's hurting. Part of me wants to hold her. It took twenty minutes to fill the papers out and for them to finish working on her. At some point, things settled. The doctor or nurse or whatever she is, tells me she had a drug overdose and asked me a lot of questions. I had few answers. "It's going to be a long night," she warns. St some point, I fall asleep in my a wooden upright chair. I woke to her voice, "hey you, you ok?" I answered, "yeah, rest." Both us fade back into sleep. Noises, loud beeps, and people talking woke me. I saw doctors and nurses standing over her, trying to revive her. Finally they stopped. "Time of death, 2:36am, likely drug overdose," a female doctor says grimly. I was standing now, deep in the corner of the room near the drapes, I couldn't move. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. She was dead. Completely dead. At some point i was crying and said to the nurse, "she woke me up a while ago, smiled and asked me if I was ok," The nurse, said, insincerely, "sorry for your loss." I walked over to the drawer next to the bed where she died. Her jacket, black leather, with red lining,  sat by itself. I reached around the vomit stains and checked the inside pocket. She carried a thin wallet with slots for drivers license, credit card, and other stuff. Where money should be, but never was, a note was folded and tucked away. I opened it. The paper was so old. It was brittle and yellowish. The handwriting of a child listed all of the things she wanted to be when she grew up; ballerina, cowgirl, pop singer. At the top, the heading said "My Childhood Dreams". I stopped believing in a lot after watching my sister die.

*blogger's note* - This is my contribution to
http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/ 's writing prompt CHILDHOOD DREAMS. It is also part of the book I am writing.

Today's song comes from my IPOD, I heard it while reading reading through my book notes and decided to post this. Lynyrd Skynrd says a lot. You should listen to most of what they say. Here's The Needle and the Spoon.



11 comments:

  1. Wow. Loved the writing. Wondered how this fit the prompt until I got to the last paragraph!
    Great
    Love Lynard skynard also :)

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  2. I can't really even say what this post moved me to feel. Such a loss, both of life and of dreams. Beautiful sadness.

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  3. This story was amazing. It makes you feel like you are right there in the hospital with them, and you can feel the storyteller's sadness and shock.

    I'm afraid to ask of this is true or not...it's probably best to leave it as it is.

    I'm so, so glad I found your blog, Lance.

    hed hed above water

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  4. no, it's not true. It's part of a book I'm writing. All fiction....sort of

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  5. You are a very talented writer. I was going to ask if this was a true story. But I just read your comment so that is good.

    PS. Thanks for the music suggestions.

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  6. Good Post! Thanks for reading mine too!

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  7. Your writing here is amazing. Somehow you expressed so much emotion without expressing too much (which would be easy to do here) It allowed me to read and feel what I could handle and nothing more. Great job!

    I like how you interpreted this and wove it in.

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  8. This was so terribly sad. It punched me in the fucking heart.

    Bravo, sir.~

    ~Kat
    http://katsidhe.blogspot.com/

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  9. thank you all. It's part of a larger story.

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