She has spent the last few hours desperately texting the Man to come pick her up so they can go get some dope. It is early, just before sunrise, but she knows he will be awake. He picks her up in his beat-up Dodge truck. They drive to someone’s house, and when heroin isn’t available she settles for something else. A high is a high is a high. Her bones are beginning to chatter with withdrawal.
The Man drops her back off at her house, promising to swing by later, to take a few hits with her, after he runs an errand. Sarah promises to wait, but they both know she is lying.
After he leaves, she assembles the ribbon, the spoon, the ball of cotton, the needle, the cup of water, and sits on the floor of her bathroom, back against the door. She smokes a cigarette, enjoying the shooting pain in her legs for a moment because she knows it will be gone soon. The anticipation, at this point, is sometimes better than the hit.
She measures out some, then thinks, What the fuck, a little more. She puts the white powder on the spoon. It looks about right, the amount of H she typically does. She sets the spoon carefully on the tile floor, watches as it spends a millisecond finding its resting point before turning her attention to the syringe.
She puts the syringe into the cup and pulls up a little water. Carefully, she picks up the spoon and releases the water into it, using the tip of the needle to mix everything up. She likes this part, the dissolving of powder to milky wet wonder. Once that’s done, she takes a small piece of cotton and rolls it between her fingers until it is the size and shape of a pea, a vegetable she hates. She puts the cotton ball into the spoon and lets it soak up what she has made.
She picks up her needle and gently places the tip into the cotton ball—which will filter out any larger chunks—and then slowly pulls the plunger back. The syringe is full and ready for her.
The needle is placed back on the floor while she ties herself off. She usually likes someone else to do this part and to inject her. The Man, Jack, Ryan. One of the many boys who love her. But she doesn’t want to wait for the Man to come back; then she would have to share. She picks up the red ribbon and looks down at her thighs. She is skinny now, finally. But she is still worried the ribbon won’t be long enough. It is, of course; she used it last night. Sometimes she wakes up and imagines all her fat has come back to her in her sleep.
She ties it tight. It takes a while to find a vein. She can’t use her arms anymore; her veins have collapsed. But at the back of the knee, she still has one that lights up for her. It glows blue in the gray of early morning. She places the tip of the needle at the pulsing, shimmering center of the vein and slides it in. She is desperate, this close to the rush, but takes the time to pull the plunger back a little to make sure she has hit blood. For a second, the swirling red and white reminds her of cherry blossoms.
She pushes the plunger down, slow and steady, and her body relaxes instantly as the drug hits her system. Her brain begins to release dopamine rapidly, flooding her with something she would like to think is joy. Her body temperature rises, and she can feel her skin flush pink. She leans her head against the door and tries to enjoy the rush.
Her heart is beating hard, and she wishes she could place her hand inside her chest and hold it steady. She is positively vibrating. She can feel the heat travel from her throbbing knee toward her head. It doesn’t feel like joy anymore, it feels like crackling flame. She can hear her dog pawing at the bathroom door, he doesn’t like it when she is in here for a long time.
She tries to get up and open the door, but her hands and legs feel numb and like they are burning all at the same time. The dog begins to bark, but her ears are ringing and she wonders if he isn’t just outside the door, maybe he is outside the house. He likes to run away, take off into the forest. When he does this, she takes a shirt she has recently worn and leaves it on the edge of the property so he can find his way back to her. He always does.
She tries to call out for him, tell him not to run, but her tongue feels heavy and swollen. Her skin is turning from pink to blue and the buzzing in her blood has almost reached her eyes. Once, when she was little, she jumped onto a log in the woods and broke open a wasp’s nest. They enveloped her. She was a beautiful, humming monster until she was pulled away from the angry insects. Does she look like that now? Has her glowing vein lit up her whole body?
Her stomach clenches, and she wonders if she can throw up, wonders if her thick tongue will let the contents of her body leave. She tries to swallow but cannot feel her throat. The absence of throat makes her realize that she has never been aware of her esophagus before—it just existed. Until now, when she is sure it doesn’t.
The hot, buzzing pressure has reached her head. She can feel her brain growing. Don’t do it, she tells her brain. There is not enough space for you to get any bigger. Her brain does not listen. She can feel it pushing against her ears, trying to squeeze her eyeballs out of their sockets. I need my eyes, she thinks, but the pressure builds against her wishes.
She is suddenly scared. She is twenty-four. She doesn’t like this. Heroin is much nicer, she prefers when she can hardly feel anything at all. Her vision blurs, and the early-morning light gives way to a blackness that seems to be saying her name. She can feel her limbs clench, trying to hold her inside her body. Please, she says. The drug releases a brilliant firework inside her head. Oh, she thinks, so this—
The Man stops by Sarah’s house a little after eight. He knocks on the door, and when she doesn’t answer, he begins to pound harder. He wants his share. He mutters “bitch” and leaves an angry note, written on a paper napkin he grabs from his car, on her door. This isn’t the first time she has locked him out to get high on her own.
The dog barks. He growls. He claws at the door. He runs through the house, knocking over trash cans, upending the coffee table, pulling the cushions off the couch. He shits on the bed. He drinks from his water bowl until it is empty. He howls for four days.
A postman comes and delivers a package. He can hear a dog barking, but no one answers the door. He leaves the box on the front porch and leaves.
Jack returns home. He calls out for her. “What the fuck,” he says, looking around the trashed house, seeing the hysterical dog. He walks to the bathroom door and pulls the door open. Before her body can hit the floor, he knows.