22. Eli

Eli

Not A Person

I sit on the park bench, keenly aware of the homeless dude sleeping on the slide.

Burrowing deeper into my jacket, I stare at my phone screen. The battery is at 10%. I either book a flight home or a hotel—no other choices. I don’t want to bunk up with B.O. Bill over there. But I can’t seem to make myself decide, either. Maybe I should go up there with the homeless person. I’m just like him.

I don’t belong anywhere, my life is a turd flushing down a toilet, and no matter what I do, I can’t stop hurting people in the process. I’m a freak of nature. A miserable fuck who doesn’t care about anything or anyone. I think I’ll always be that way, too. How can I change it anyway? Even if I miraculously became the star individual with a moral compass and a conscience, no one would believe it. No one would believe I’d changed.

So why fucking bother?

Leaving Phoenix like that…having sex with him like that…what the hell was I thinking? Why didn’t I leave while he was in the shower? Why did I make it so much worse? Maybe it’s because I feel worse. Fuck. It’s never been this bad before. Even when I was a kid, getting fucking groomed and eating food with cigarette ashes in it, I don’t think I ever felt this bad.

This… wounded.

It isn’t that I don’t want to be with Phoenix. I really do. It’s why I got with Leon. It’s why I tormented him on tour. It’s why I purposefully put myself in his path every chance I got. Do I love the guy? Probably. Love makes you insane, doesn’t it? And when he’s gone, all the light in the world stays where he is. But I’m not worthy of being in that shimmer. I’m not.

Let’s be real here: Phoenix still hates me for what happened last year. He’s never going to move past it. He’s never going to be able to see me for what I am. A fake. A fucking fake at everything. I should’ve been a damn actor. I’d be great at it.

I should've kept walking when I first saw him three years ago at that party. I should’ve never stopped and talked to him. I shouldn’t have let myself get so hung up on that shy look in his chimera eyes and how easily we vibed, how every second seemed to build on top of each other until we were frothing at the mouth, hungry for it all.

So, I might love him. And if there’s one piece of my fucked up brain that recognizes it, it’s why I’m choosing a mercy killing. Put him down so he doesn’t suffer anymore. Misery loves company, but I’m fine being alone. I’ll get my medicine and make myself right again. I guess I’ll have to call a few people about making new content. I’ll block them out like I normally do.

It’s just mechanics, you know?

It’s…fine.

I pull up my dealers in the area because I had to have them back when I’d visited Phoenix. Firing off a few texts to the more promising people, I open the tab to the closest hotel and book a room. My phone dies not thirty seconds after. I walk the two miles to the hotel and check-in. An hour later, battery charging, I get a text.

It’s all so familiar.

The exchange of cash, shoving the baggie in my pocket, hustling back to the room, and locking the door.

Scoop some powder with my nail, line it up, and snort.

And then I’m on my back, naked, eyes wide.

I feel…nothing. I am nothing.

Tracy: Cops found a lighter. They’re checking it for prints.

T his is what she chooses to send me on Christmas? Well, Merry fucking Christmas to you too, bitch.

I toss my phone on the queen-sized bed and rake a hand through my hair as my stomach knots painfully. Shuffling over to the table in the corner of the room, I snort a line of…fuck, I don’t even know what. I can’t worry about what she says. I wore gloves. She can’t pin shit on me.

So why am I freaking out?

I snort another line. It tastes like cocaine, but my memory is shot to hell. I’ve been numb for days.

Wandering into the bathroom, I wince at the harsh light, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My beard is growing, deep purple circles cling under my eyes like leeches, and my hair has been in a knot since yesterday. I stink. And there’s a massive pimple on my cheek that I keep digging at.

Junkie. Addict. Loser. Pathetic faggot.

I shudder, my aunt’s words slamming into me.

Grabbing the razor blade from the sink, I slide down to the floor and drag it across my thigh. As soon as the sharp edge cuts through and I see blood, I wait for the relief to fill my body. I bite hard on my lip, making the line longer and deeper. My breaths are shallow, and the pain is almost nonexistent because everything else hurts more.

It’s not working anymore. Not like it did when I was younger.

I used to cut and immediately feel better.

Pain I could control. Pain I’d give to myself. A distraction. A fucking godsend in the midst of my horrible existence.

“Fuck,” I growl, slamming my palm down hard over the slice because it’s bleeding a lot.

I bang my head against the cabinet doors behind me, my eyes fluttering while vertigo takes me by surprise.

Shit. Holy fuck, did I hit a vein?

I lift my hand and more blood squirts. I reach for a towel, wrap it around my leg, and tie it as tightly as possible. The white instantly turns red. Well, this is just fucking perfect, isn’t it? I can’t do a damn thing about it, either.

If I go to the hospital, they’ll lock me up.

“Could just die,” I tell the wall. “What else do you got going for you?”

I laugh hysterically, tears squirting free while my hands shake from the exertion I’m putting into staunching my bleeding. “Fuck. Fuck! ”

Panic starts without my say so, but what else am I supposed to do? Self-preservation instincts are a motherfucker when they want to be. I get to my feet, hobble back into the room, and find my phone without dropping the towel. Slumping onto the bed, I almost call Phoenix. I almost fucking do it. But then I find myself calling someone I never expected to.

And he answers on the first ring.

“Eli?”

“Jorge. I…I need help.”