Ray starts getting texts from her before the sun has even risen. He has been up all night, pacing his small house while chain-smoking cigarettes. He wants to get high but needs a clear head. Sarah texts him again: r u up?
Fuck it, he thinks, and tells her he is on his way over. He drives his truck the five miles to her house. It is still dark out, and he can just barely see the fog of his warm breath hitting the cold air. He doesn’t bother knocking; he knows her boyfriend is out of town. She is antsy, clearly in need of a fix.
She follows him out to the car. As they drive, he lets her change the radio station. When they pull up, he tells her to wait in the car. She hands him some money, a crumpled pile of ones and fives, saying she can get him more later. He nods and goes into the house. This time he knocks.
He talks to the guy inside quietly, the TV blaring in the background. He hands him the money and tucks the small baggie filled with white powder into his jacket pocket. His truck is still running, and he holds his hands up to the heating vents for a minute before putting the vehicle in reverse. As they drive, he pulls out the baggie and waves it to her teasingly.
“China white?” she says, her voice perking up. “Fuck, man. It’s not my birthday.”
“A treat,” he says, and puts it back in his pocket.
Back at her place, she lets her dog out to piss while she gathers up everything they need: the ribbon, the spoon, the ball of cotton, the needle, the cup of water. She holds up a lighter, but he shakes his head. “Nah, this shit’s too pure to need heat.”
They sit down in the bathroom, up against the wall. She asks if he wants to go first, but he shakes his head. She looks relieved. He knows what she likes; they have done this many times before. She stretches her leg out a little, and he takes the red ribbon and ties it around her thigh. She is so skinny now. He preferred it when she had tits, but whatever. He measures out the drugs, tapping the powder into the spoon, looks at her, then taps out some more.
She hums a little as he prepares it, watching as he swishes the water into the powder until it is dissolved and then sucked up into the syringe. He finds a good vein on the back of her knee. His hands tremble a little as he slides the needle in. He pulls back the plunger until he sees a bit of blood. She closes her eyes, waiting expectantly. He hesitates, and she opens her eyes: “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he says, and pushes the plunger down.
It takes her a few seconds to react. “What the fuck?” she says, eyes going wide, jaw tightening. “This isn’t fucking dope,” she chokes out. He doesn’t respond, just stands and takes a step back. She puts her hand to her chest, scratching at her sternum frantically. Her skin is already taking on a bluish tint. She tries to push herself up from the floor but collapses back against the wall.
She tries to talk, letting out a rattling noise that he thinks might mean: Why? He doesn’t like watching this. He likes her. He was just cleaning up a mess that no one else would handle. He has to make sure it takes.
Her eyes look like they have their own heartbeat. They pulse angrily at him while her face widens into a grimace. He kneels down. “Fuck,” he says. “Nothing personal.” He’s pretty sure Dale told her about the fight two weeks ago, the knife, the blood, the body that he turned into pieces. She’d fucking snitch, he tells himself. She’s never even been to jail.
He stands back up as her body starts to seize. She’s so thin, she looks like a broken doll. He picks up the needle and wipes the syringe down with his shirt. He tosses it next to her twitching legs. He walks around her; he can’t look at her anymore. He closes the door behind him.
He waits a minute, listening. He hears the vomit try to come out, the cough and gargle of her seizing throat choking. It gets quiet for a moment, and then he can hear her body slide sideways, hitting the door.
He has shit to do now. He starts to search the house for anything that might incriminate him or Dale. He can’t find the shotgun she let Dale use: her boyfriend must have it. He pulls apart closets, throwing coats and clothes onto the floor. He can’t find any of the stolen shit; she must have pawned it. He pulls out drawers, picks up sofa cushions, and throws them in frustration when he finds nothing. He goes to the couch and grabs her purse. He looks through her phone and quickly deletes all his messages to her. He looks through her wallet—no more cash, but a stolen credit card that he pockets.
He can’t be sure that no one knows they went to get shit this morning. He grabs a paper napkin from the kitchen and writes a note. “Came back—no answer! Where the fuck are you? Txt me.” Her dog has started to sniff and paw at the bathroom door. He looks at Ray and a growl rips through the room.
Fuck this, he thinks, and leaves, the house in shambles from his search, the dog clawing more urgently at the door, the body in the bathroom so very still now. He locks the door behind him and leaves his note.
His truck takes a second to start, and his heart jumps around before the engine finally turns. He needs some booze, a cigarette, and a couple hours’ sleep.