Page 1 of Was I Ever Free

PROLOGUE

Past

Iwas in mid-conversation with you, in my thirties, standing in the small kitchen of the house I built for us when I blinked and I was back here. Back to being eighteen and so doped up that I can’t even make out who I am or if I’m dead or alive.

I crack an eyelid.

Alive it seems.

Where did all this time go?

The now familiar throb in my thigh where the Narcan was jabbed in a muscle can only mean one thing.

I was overdosing.

Wasn’t my first. Third in less than a year, to be precise. May not be my last either. Not when heroin is like unfiltered freedom in a needle. Some say it’s better than an orgasm. But that doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s more like a rolling wave of warmth, starting at the tip of your toes all the way to the top of your head. The feeling is so euphoric that it releases you from all your problems. It unshackles you from the weight of life itself. The French call orgasms—la petite mort—the little death. Whoever came up with that name never shot up a day in their life, or else they’d be waxing poetic to the gods of opioids.

Even with the help of Narcan, a medication that reverses the effects of opiates, I’m still foggy—just not dying. Exhaustion is a heavy weight trying to pull me back under. I could let it take me. Maybe I should.

It’s too loud in here.

I crack the other eyelid.

My vision is unfocused. Still, I recognize my friend Damien hovering over me, shaking my shoulders and yelling something I can’t be bothered to understand. I swat him away.

“I’m fine,” I rasp.

I pull myself up from the ratty couch I was sprawled on and situate myself. The scent of unwashed bodies lingers in the air. I’m still in Damien’s basement. Old brown vinyl walls, yellowing posters hanging on for dear life, an orange shaggy carpet—most likely three decades old—and smoke so thick I could chew on it. Some of our friends are scattered around—most of them too lost to their own highs to have noticed my own plight.

“Dude, I almost called an ambulance this time, your lips were turning blue,” he says, chewing on his own bloodied and cracked lip, pupils so wide I can barely see the brown of his eyes. Luckily, this idiot is into stimulants and was wide awake when I began to overdose. Most likely for days now.

Shooting him a look of disdain, I try to stand up but my body isn’t cooperating, so I slump back onto the couch and rest my head behind me, closing my eyes.

He tries to speak again but I don’t let him.

“Fuck off, Damien.”

He falls silent. I can feel him linger for a few seconds, then I hear his soft footfalls move across the carpet. The music grows louder. He must have turned up the volume on the old stereo he stole from his aunt. Him settling on the couch beside me is the last thing I remember before I’m swept up on the wings of oblivion, disappearing for a little while longer.

* * *

I’m standingat the corner of Chesterfield and King, in the heart of Noxport’s less desirable neighborhood, having left Damien’s a few hours ago. The California sun burns my eyes, making me squint. To my right, and down the road, is my dealer’s house—my last crumpled twenty burning a hole in my pocket, next to an equally crumpled piece of paper with a phone number—and to my left is a family-run hardware store. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and try to think through the haze. For once, my mind seems to have quieted.

My feet make the decision for me.

I don’t question it.

I turn left and walk into the store, the bell chiming above my head. A teenage girl with a low ponytail and caked-on mascara greets me from behind the counter. I ignore her. At least there’s AC in here. The place is disorganized, the aisles so narrow, it feels like the walls are closing in on me, but I eventually find what I’m looking for.

Dropping the padlock on the counter beside the cash register, I barely glance up while she rings it up for me.

“Your total is $19.22,” she sing-songs with a too-wide smile, the twinkle in her eyes making me cringe.

I fish the twenty out of my pocket and hand it to her before I can convince myself otherwise.

“Would you like a bag?”

“No.”

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