Page 19 of Creatures Like Us
My eyes slide open, my lids crusty from the salt of dried tears. Noah is here. Emptying my buckets. Watching me.
“How are you doing?” His voice echoes in the darkness.
It’s nighttime. I don’t know how long I slept.
“Bad,” I mumble. My muscles twitch painfully whenever I move. It’s like the worst flu I’ve ever had, because it’s also laced with inescapable cravings, along with a rampant anxiety, making me irritable and murderous.
Noah watches me a moment before he leaves and comes back with a basin of water and a towel.
My words come out slurred. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you.” He kneels in front of the bed. Then he wets the towel in the basin and starts wiping my face clean of sweat.
I let out a low noise of protest, but I’m too weak to move, let alone escape him. The towel is lukewarm and soft, and his movements are gentle.
“I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,” he mumbles.
I have to force the words out. They need to be said. “But not sorry enough to let me go? Not sorry enough to?…?to at least give me what I need.”
“The drugs are not what you need.” His movements are steady and strong as he slides a hand gently to the back of my head and lifts my hair to wipe the towel across my neck.
“You don’t know that,” I whisper. “You don’t know me.”
“So let me.”
I close my eyes, letting him take care of me like a child. It feels good; I can’t deny that. Maybe?…?Maybe I was too harsh to him before. About the books. Maybe I should apologize.
“Noah.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m—” My mouth tightens, and I can’t say the word. Instead, I shift my gaze sideways with a scowl. “Never mind.”
He doesn’t deserve to hear me say sorry. He’s the reason I’m in this situation in the first place. Well, if I didn’t get myself addicted to heroin, I suppose I wouldn’t be here, so I suppose it is my own fault after all?…
I crawl into an even tighter ball, seeking relief but finding none.
Why can’t he just give me what I need to make this stop? He could keep me here for as long as he wishes, if he only gave it to me?…?If he only made me feel better?…
He claims he wants to help me or save me or whatever, but why can’t he understand that I can’t be saved? All I’ve done in this life is distract myself from the fact that I’ll never amount to anything. I act like I don’t give a fuck, with a stupid smile on my face. High out of mind, high out of sight.
Hasn’t Noah ever depended on anything? It doesn’t even have to be a substance—it can be another person, a pet, or even a place. It just so happens that I’m the type of fucked up whereI have to twist my brain chemistry to feel human, and now I’m starting to lose my grip on everything, or rather,gaina grip on everything.
Sobriety means my bad thoughts are returning.
Sobriety means the depression lurking in the recesses of my mind is surging back to the surface.
I’m a better person when I’m high, for fuck’s sake. Happier. More fun. Peoplelikeme when I’m high. The sober me is a cowering creature who belongs in the dark.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks.
It’s allhisfault, forcing me to go cold turkey like this in some twisted, involuntary rehab. As if his actions and attitude weren’t enough to piss me off, he’s stupidly beautiful, with that long black hair, angular face, and eyes so dark you’ll get lost and never find your way back.
Why is he being so gentle with me? Why is he looking at me like that, with that soft look in those pitch-black eyes?
He discards the towel and reaches out again, this time to cup my cheek.
I flinch. “Stop.”
