Page 18 of Dark Room Junkie

I rolled my eyes again. “Yes! Tell me you didn’t sell it!”

Her gaze cleared a bit, and she seemed to remember. “I got two hundred francs for it.”

“Two hundred? That was...” I bit back my words and threw my hands up. “How could you? Dammit, Mom!”

“Why do you even have such a fancy coat? You didn’t buy that yourself, did you? Or did you hustle for it?”

I stared at her and wanted to strangle her.

Calm down! It’s just a coat!

But it had been a gift. Not payment. A genuine gift from Pascal, a guy I met last winter after a concert at Hyde. I was in the stairwell and couldn’t bring myself to leave the building, as thick snowflakes were falling outside and an icy wind swept across Zurich. I only had my leather jacket and a scarf. And if there was one thing I feared, it was the cold.

Pascal suddenly stood beside me. His company had rented the whole club that evening and celebrated. We had talked a bit before, but nothing more. He had a slightly mocking way when he tried to make a joke, but he never went below the belt. And he had seen right through me.

“Here, take my coat,” he had said, taking it off. “Otherwise, you’ll freeze to death.”

I declined and shook my head. “I can’t accept that.”

“Yes. You can and you will. It’s new, and I have three others in my closet. You look like you could really use it. I’m already here with the car.”

“I have nothing to give you for it.”

“You already entertained me today. Isn’t that something?”

Pascal came to the club a few more times and listened to us play. But it wasn’t until the fourth meeting that we hooked up.

The coat had been a gift, and my mother had simply sold it.

“I asked you something,” she said, exhaling smoke.

The familiar anger boiled up inside me, and I gritted my teeth. “No! I don’t have any money!”

And then I was stuck here, too, because the damn washing machine still had at least an hour to spin, and the dryer would need another hour afterward. I let out an exasperated sigh, pushed it aside, and went back to the kitchen.

“You smell like food,” she said, following me. “And you filled the fridge. How did you pay for that?”

My anger reached its boiling point. I turned to her, punched the wall with full force, and screamed at her. “Stop it!”

“All right,” she muttered and trudged back into the living room. “There’s no need to shout like that.”

Before I collapsed in pain, I sat down at the kitchen table, rested my elbows on the table, and buried my face in my hands. The pain in my right hand lingered and helped distract me from all this shit here. I ignored the bleeding. My heart was racing, and I wanted to burst out of my skin.

When I peeked through my fingers, my eyes fell on a packet of pills. They were always lying around here. Romero supplied my mother with them when she sobbed to him that she couldn’t sleep. Every packet I came across, I pocketed. It meant fewer pills for her to swallow, although I knew she would eventually call Romero again. In a way, he was my surefire way to earn a little extra on the side. When money got tight, I sold the stuff on the street on weekends.

Irritated, I retreated to my room, sat on the bed with my back against the wall, and put the headphones in my ears. Chris had already sent me a message with the link, so I listened to the songs while sending a few messages. I didn’t plan on sorting anything out tonight; I was already in a bad mood. No, tonight I had to endure here and hope that tomorrow morning I had the apartment to myself for a while. But it didn’t hurt to check the situation for next week already. And as it looked, luck was on my side because I got two positive replies to my date requests right away. That was good because it meant I wouldn’t have to sleep in the rehearsal room every day. There was no shower there. And no matter how often you aired out the room, it always smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.

At some point, I heard laughter and loud music from the living room, so I went to check.Please, no drug party!Unfortunately, that was exactly what seemed to be happening here tonight. Two guys were filling glasses with vodka on the living room table while my mother and two other women were doing a few lines.

“You didn’t even say your son was here, Dana!” Jörg trumpeted, holding out a full glass to me. “Here! Let’s toast!”

My pulse went from zero to a hundred. My body froze, and I didn’t know if I was sweating or if I was cold. With my mouth open, I stared at Jörg, the glass, and then the others. My presence seemed to please them.

“Sit with us!” Lydia sang and waved me over. “There’s enough coke for everyone.”

I felt dizzy and somehow managed to stagger back to my room, pack my things, and disappear from the apartment. I huddled on the landing of the first floor. There was an outlet nearby that I often used to charge my phone when the apartment became too much for me. Agitated, I buried my face between my knees and took deep breaths. I could have slapped myself for even allowing the slightest bit of hope. But of course, she had to throw a drug party tonight of all nights. I felt sick to my stomach, and I hated myself for the self-imposed rules not to carry bad moods from one world to another. But as much as I wanted to break them and even the idea crossed my mind to drop by Alex’s, I wouldn’t. Never would I impose myself on anyone tonight—for my own sake and for the sake of everyone else. With trembling hands, I turned the music back on and tried to focus on the songs.

“Hola, Guapo! Qué tal?”

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