You know how people are supposed to be all happy and glowy-esque and super cheesy and so on when they apparently fall in love or in my case try to get over my object of drug ridden lust by pretending to like someone else? Yeah you get the point.
Because as much as I hate lying to Dare, I like my recovery better. I don’t like Dare. He’s old, excessively smart, self-righteous and doesn’t deserve a shitload of hell like me. Also, I’ve found a new addiction although he hasn’t found out about it. Say hello to my new friend – the cutter.
Cutting makes me happy. Honestly, the blood makes me happy. The pain is terrible, but after my detox session, a few sharp scrapes on my anatomy feels almost blissful. But I told another lie
I hate my recovery. It’s hell. I’m pale, screaming inside with unhappiness, heartbroken because the person I thought I really liked is probably engaged to the opposite of me and quite frankly, I’m frustrated at my seemingly rapid recovery that won’t go fast enough.
On the good side, I’m quite healthy. I can eat normal food, have lengthy conversations and the sober lifestyle is gradually growing on me. A weary sort of acceptance has taken over my mental framework and for the first time, I have no priorities. My life is blank and I can fill it with plans that might work out. I have a shot at a proper life for the first time in years.
But there’s also the tiny issue of the insomnia and nightmare ridden minimal sleep.
I got started on the meth, and my dreams were insane. Creative Kilimanjaro’s that threw me back to mundane existence with a curse on my lips. Now these dreams have the opposite effect. Ice hot, dewy cold psychological fissions of pain in the worst possible non-physical way. The worst part – they are lifeless, blood ridden alternate realities with one recurrent theme…my death.
I don’t dream about my family, or David, or the torture I have endured in life. I dream about my ascent to a bigger purgatory, an endless one filled with painful cries of innocents that have been hurt by things I have no consciousness of. I dream of white empty fields, flowerless, with my blood slowly seeping through and destroying whatever purity lay before it. I dream of my lifeless state, plopped right in the centre, alone, loveless.
And subconsciously, I rub at my ankles. The one place Dare would never see a cutting mark. Props for ingenuity.
I get the blades when I go on grocery runs. He lets me drive now. Says it’s my me-time. I drive semi long distances unable to think of anything because he’s not there to push ideas in my mind.
Do you see my quandary?
I’m in need of a man I have little attraction to, but I have to pretend to like him because if I don’t, I am an existing zombie, incapable of human behaviour. Heck, he has had to re-teach me a lotta things. Showering properly, making good conversation.
He teaches me to exist.
David took the existence out of my maturing self when he got me hooked and as I slowly detox, Dare is infusing me with life, albeit slowly.
I force myself to a semi-conscious state as the hours pass. I hear his footsteps as he makes his way for his morning caffeine, showers and gets into his work clothes. His leave is over. He walks in plants a peck on my head, mumbling words about his schedule and then leaves.
He’s different now…almost aloof. After our almost mushy confessions of highly clichéd feelings, he’s withdrawn – almost. Giving me time to recover I guess.
Glad to be out of the house, I get in the car and half speed to work. The days don’t move fast enough. They seem to stretch into one endless day and Fareeda, well Fareeda is…unstable.
She’s like a ticking bomb – on edge. She tries to pretend all is good, but there’s something off. She’s responding well and is significantly less destructive. Still, she’s not happy. Half animated conversations, blank eyes and a constantly straight mouth.
I know what to do.
He missed our session.
He missed our damn session. A tear finds its way down my face.
I’m getting overly emotional over a missed meeting.
Where the hell is he? It’s late and he’s not home. He promised dinner.
I can’t stop pacing. Goddamit where is he?
Oh my God, he’s left. He’s left me. Seen through my scam.
Everything is blurry.
I fall on the floor, the tears fast building up, chest cavities compressing my heart.
He left me.
Like I left my family.
Like Koye left me.
Like David left me.
Like I left myself.
I’m in pain. The kitchen isn’t too far away.
I should call him first… see if he wants to give me closure.
FUCK! Calm down Fareeda calm down.
Why is the house spinning?
Need. Drugs. Need. Drugs, badly
I dial his number.
Ironic (Alanis Morrisette)
The phone’s vibrating, but there’s a policeman around the corner.
He’s not picking. I stumble into the kitchen.
The table knife is there, shiny and oh so inviting.
I recollect a snippet of memory.
“If you wanna cut well, cut vertically. That way, they won’t be able to stitch it up”
“Also, lock the doors.”
Lock the doors.
Two quick slices and I’m bleeding and happy.
It’s my nightmare manifested.
All alone, on a neutral floor, the blood slowly seeping through, staining.
Quiet house…as usual.
She’s probably sleeping.
I make my way to the kitchen for a much needed drink. Dealing with a burgeoning sociopath is not easy.
There’s so much blood.
I pick her up and touch her neck…
There’s no pulse…
This series is written by @FareedaKhalo and it’s supported by the good people of Barows21. Check out www.barows21.com for all your favourite international magazines. You can read previous episodes here. Comments and feedback are always appreciated.
Latest posts by Alithnayn (see all)
- Photographic Explorations – Kene Nwatu - September 21, 2017
- Kill Neo Nollywood, It Doesn’t Exist; A Review of Uche Aguh’s Works - September 12, 2017
- Bad Market: Paul Gaius’ Short Film is Nigeria in a Pinch - June 27, 2017