1. Nia

SIX WEEKS LATER

1

NIA

At this point, the ritual is deeply ingrained into me like muscle memory. A habit. A word I've spent my entire life trying to cultivate, to embody in the healthiest way possible but have never formed a positive connotation with.

Habit.

Brushing teeth is a habit for most people. For me, it's a painful task filled with more executive function than I can muster at eight in the morning, and even less around ten at night. Running in the mornings, drinking a daily cup of coffee, hell, even logging into an app once a week to learn a language can count as a habit.

But those aren't the ones I can form or conquer.

No. Not me.

Shaking my head, I press into the white lid of the plastic orange bottle, open the container, and give in to the admission with a heavy exhale. Here I am, in full habit mode.

Because habit sounds cleaner than addiction, a word I'm having a hard time accepting, even though I'm well aware it's more chemical than psychological.

For now.

It's the nature of who I am. Get in an accident, get hurt in some way shape or form—even if unintentionally—then take the pills. Eventually, the pain stops, but the pills still come.

And I, so good at the bad habits, always continue to take them.

The clock radio in my beat-up Chevy doesn't work anymore, not since the crash. I flash the screen on my phone—nearly six in the evening, just in time for my ‘coffee.'

I chortle at the thought, opening my glovebox and pulling out a CD case that dates back to the 2000s. Miley Cyrus' debut album. I smile to myself, remembering how I'd bought it sarcastically but ended up loving nearly every goddamn song. StarScreamer had to ride with Feral-Streep to practice for three whole months because I refused to play anything else in my car until I had memorized every single lyric.

And now that CDs are relics of the past, it's my favorite prop.

Checking around to make sure no one is roaming the parking lot, I place the CD case on top of the middle console and drop two pills right over Miley's face. I dig through the glove box looking for the spoon, unsure if I'd taken it out at the hotel or not. Without it, I'd have to improvise, which is fine. I can adapt.

I pull an old gift card out of my wallet and a trusty dollar bill. It's trained already, rolled up into the perfect shape, just waiting to be tightened into a little straw. I open it up, though, folding it in half and dropping the painkillers inside of it like an envelope and pressing the edges together to avoid any spills. With the CD case perfectly centered in the middle console and my one dollar envelope stuffed with pills, I press down with the gift card, doing my best to crush my medicine into a fine powder.

A cracking noise immediately lets me know this is the last time I'll be able to use Miley for the job, but I press one more time anyway, hard enough to be sure there are only crumbs left of my pills. Meet Miley Cyrus is officially fucked, a giant split in the center that spiderwebs off into four directions, making it an impossible table for the itch I desperately need to soothe. I sigh, picking up my dollar pouch and tossing the broken case into the backseat.

I settle for my middle console, knowing I'll never get all the powder out of the fuzzy fabric and that I'll likely be inhaling years of built up dust and cigarette ashes recirculated through my car's AC system.

Fuck it.

I dispense the powder into a perfect line, undoing the enveloped bill and smoothing out all the wrinkles before re-wrapping it into a little straw. Another glance around the parking lot, just for good measure before I put the rolled up dollar in my nose. Plugging the opposite nostril, I go to town. In one single inhale, I suck up the entirety of the line. I ignore the burn, keeping the nostril plugged as I facilitate drainage by pushing against the other cheekbone.

Full body shudders have me shaking my head like a dog, the bitter taste of the powder sliding down the back of my throat like a familiar friend. I search the car frantically for something, anything, and settle for an old can of soda, forgotten with time in the cup holder of my driver side door.

I jiggle the can side to side, checking for liquid and feeling my heart soar at the sound of the stale soda splashing around the bottom. Turning it over, I swallow it down, pushing the astringent powder further down my throat.

Fucking wretched.

Was there anything worse than warm, flat Coke?

Yes.

Remembering I had ashed a cigarette into that particular can at least three times before the accident.

Acid rises up to my jaw, the feeling of nausea sweeping through my body in one hot burst.

Shaking my head again, I heave, this time loudly, as if it could somehow make the feeling better by purging it with noise. It works with tequila, so why can't it work with Roxys? The mellowing isn't immediate, but just knowing it's in my system is enough to give me courage, enough to ease the anxiety and make what's coming next just a little more bearable.

Nothing felt bearable anymore.

A natural consequence of writing off my Latin American mother because I refuse to adhere and function in a cycle of generational trauma that only multiplies, never seeming to have an end in sight.

I will no longer contribute.

But that doesn't mean I'm not rotting in my own pool of guilt about it.

If my grandmother was alive, I would probably be on the receiving end of three hundred phone calls a day about how it wasn't right to cut off my mom the way I did.

But my grandmother is dead, and I owe nothing to the departed.

Just like the first time, weeks ago, I wrap the laces of my quads around my fingers. Leaving my bags in the trunk, no plans to stay longer than a few laps and maybe have a cup of coffee with Lonnie for old time's sake, I step toward the building.

A quick glance in the side mirror, just to make sure there are no crumbs hanging from my nose, is all I need, but I catch a flash of the scar on the side of my head. It's only a few weeks old, still bright pink and raised, even more visible now that I keep that side of my head shaved. Rolling my shoulders back, I take a deep breath in through my mouth.

Fuck, am I really doing this again? As if the repercussions from the first time around weren't enough of a warning sign to stay the fuck away from Devil Town and Skateland? No, I'm delusional enough to convince myself it means the exact opposite, that getting into a nearly lethal car accident after copping out six weeks prior had been a punishment for avoiding my fate.

I stare at the double doors, ignoring every alarm my brain blares off. This isn't my home anymore, hasn't been for five years. The chances of being welcomed with open arms, finding the sisterhood and joy I not only miss but desperately crave with every inch of my bones, is nearly nonexistent.

But I can't give up that easily.

Nia Da Silva doesn't fucking quit; shit, I don't even fucking die. I glance back at the proof, still visible on my crumpled car. With a sigh, I double back and walk to the trunk, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder in defeat. I can't do this without my protective gear. Skating without my pads would be a surefire way to fall, fall wrong, and get hurt again.

I'm already plenty hurt.

I don't need the extra help.