Scars from a Memoir (29 page)

“Callllle,” I shouted.

The basement was pitch black. There wasn't even any light coming in through the crack in the window. My yelling vibrated against the walls, and it got louder as I continued to scream. My wrists pulled at the rope. Everything was hurting again—my ankles from the ropes, my neck from my chin pressing into my chest, my stomach from not eating.

The door opened and the light turned on. I counted his steps; it took him twelve, and then another eight until he was in front of me.

“I need more.”

His eyes bulged out of their sockets, but not because he was surprised. He was on something a lot stronger than coke. Something like meth. I wanted to feel that. I wanted to be high.

“I knew you'd fall in love again,” he said.

“I want it. Now.”

He told me to give him a few minutes, and he laughed as he climbed the stairs. My feet tapped the concrete. My fingers intertwined and twisted each knuckle until they cracked. My mouth watered for its flavor, the bitterness that filled the back of my tongue when the smack hit my bloodstream. I stopped fidgeting and listened to every noise above me. The ceiling creaked. The faucet turned on. He was getting the dope ready, heating the powder, dropping in the cotton ball, and filling the chamber.

His footsteps got louder; when he appeared, the syringe was in his hands.

“Stick me.” My tone was demanding, intense. I craved it.

There was a buildup in my stomach, a need that took over my entire body. It owned me. It branded my thoughts. It marked my emotions.

He moved behind me, and the needle glided into my vein. In addition to the high that shuddered through me, it was as though the four-year break had never happened. The needle and I were still best friends. The dope was still my savior. There was a brief pause while he pulled back on the chamber, and what followed was the most angelic sparkle.

*   *   *

I woke up on the floor, curled in a ball, my arms wrapped around my knees. Cale sat not too far away, leaning against the wall and watching me.

“Don't do anything stupid,” he said.

I remembered him untying my hands and ankles and bringing me to the bathroom after I threw up all over myself. The high had been too strong. So had the next one, and the one after that. My body wasn't used to junk. It would be soon. Then I'd be able to handle the high…until my stomach started revolting from shooting up too much. Then I'd be back to throwing up a few times a day the way I had before I'd gotten arrested.

There was a musky smell in the basement, and the floor was like ice. I was wearing Cale's clothes, and I'd only eaten toast and eggs in between the shots he gave me. I didn't know what time it was. I didn't even know how long I'd been down here.

“What's the date?” I asked.

Cale looked at his watch. “April fourteenth.”

Dustin's court date was tomorrow. I'd been with Cale for two nights, and today was my birthday. I was twenty-nine years old.

“Is it afternoon?”

“It's eight in the morning,” he said.

“I need another shot.”

He had the dope and everything else he needed in his pocket; he could fix me up right now.

“It's my birthday,” I said. “Give me a good one.”

I watched him cook up the mixture, and I stuck my arm out. Cale wasn't very good at finding a vein, and a tiny scab had formed in the crook behind my elbow next to the scar where the doctor had lanced the cyst. It almost seemed that nothing had changed, except that one bag of dope got me high. I remembered being sober, but smack turned those memories into a lullaby…one that made me close my eyes and drift off into a nod.

Warmth, like a fuzzy blanket, cuddled my body as soon as he pulled out the rig. The cool cement felt like a steel breeze. There was a pain in my neck, and it wasn't because my chin had fallen toward my chest or that I had slept on the ground. It was from the necklace that was bound around my skin. I clasped the chain with my fingers and pulled. I moved my arm out over my body, and just before I rested it on the floor, I emptied my fingers. The gold clunked onto the concrete, sending a ringing sound throughout the room. My neck was finally free. My nails dug into the cement, holding on while the high took me toward its peak. And my eyes closed.

I heard Cale move back to the wall, sliding down until his ass hit the ground. “Don't you dare try to leave, or I'll tie you up again.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I whispered.

-34-

HOURS BLURRED TOGETHER. Time existed, but I didn't care to keep track of it. It didn't matter whether the basement was light or dark, cold or warm, whether I threw up on myself or made it to the bathroom in time. Heroin filled me. It was my dream maker. It had become my everything. Again.

Again
was a word often used by addicts. Cale would shoot me up
again
as soon as the high wore off. I had forgotten what it felt like to be sober
again
. I didn't have to sell my body, dig through the trash to find a receipt to return items for cash, or go to my dealer's house. Cale cooked me food if I was hungry, carried me to the bathtub when I got sick on myself, even let me wear his clothes. This setup was actually kind of perfect.

Before the basement, relapse had always haunted me. If I'd had a bad day or was triggered by something from my past, my mind would go to heroin. Except for when I'd taken the train to Roxbury and called Mark, though, I hadn't taken it further than just thoughts. I had fought against my addiction, and I'd always won. But Cale hadn't given me a choice; he had taken away my freedom. Did I hate him for that? Heroin was putting a smile on my face. I guess the answer was no.

I had watched a TV show on sex slaves, how traffickers kidnapped young girls and got them addicted to heroin before they sold them on the black market. What Cale had done wasn't much different. Dustin was my buyer, and instead of my body, I was giving him my soul. But aside from sex slaves, how many people were actually taken against their will, tied to a chair, and forced to have dope shot into their body? This was one of the consequences of my addiction.

There were always repercussions from addiction. Some got HIV or Hep C from sharing needles; some developed health problems because drugs had ruined their bodies. There were girls, like me, who caused a miscarriage because they injected too much. Then there were those who died either from accidental overdose or as an indirect result, like Sunshine getting beaten to death and left in a garbage can.

This was the side of addiction that all addicts feared when they got sober—the side never mentioned during rehab, in counseling, or in any of the addiction books we were given to read. We were told to change our lifestyle, to stop hanging out with our old crowd, and to find friends who were clean. But when you owed a dealer money, stole drugs from the wrong people, or took a plea and put an entire gang behind bars, there were consequences. I had thought my punishment for being involved with Dustin and trafficking heroin was the two-and-a-half years I'd spent in jail. But that was only the state's punishment. Now I was serving Dustin's sentence.

I was in deep, and every time I opened my eyes and met Cale's stare, I was reminded of how much I needed him. How the sound of his footsteps made me forget about all the progress I'd made in sober living. How watching the powder melt in the spoon trumped the high I'd once gotten from sobriety.

“Are you hungry?” Cale yelled from upstairs.

“A little,” I tried to shout, but it wasn't loud at all. My throat was sore. Everything hurt because the high was wearing off.

He handed me a cup of ramen noodles. I didn't bother to dump in the packet of seasoning. I just needed something in my stomach; I didn't care how it tasted. He sat next to me while I ate. We hadn't spoken a whole lot to each other—mostly because I was in a constant nod—but I was comfortable with him. He hadn't tried to have sex with me. He took good care of me, and there wasn't much he hadn't seen; he cleaned up my puke and sat outside the door while I went to the bathroom.

“The trial is in twelve hours,” he said.

I slurped up a noodle and twirled more around the fork.

“That means your boy will be here soon.”

I met Cale's eyes. The only thing to stop him from giving me another shot would be if I said the wrong thing.

“I can't wait to see him.”

“Good girl.”

I finished the noodles and drank the cloudy water from the bottom of the cup. Once I set it on the ground, I pulled up my sleeve.

“I have enough for only one more shot. While I go and re-up, I'm going to tie you to the chair.”

I shrugged.

He lifted me in the air and placed me on the chair, binding my wrists and ankles. While he went upstairs to cook up the dope, I tapped my heels against the cement. I stabbed the pad of each finger with my thumbnail, counting to ten forward and backward.

The floor was thin. I could hear his movements in the kitchen, water dribbling from the sink, and the click of his butane lighter. Then his phone when it rang.

“Everything set for tomorrow?” Cale asked.

I normally tried to keep my brain busy while Cale prepared my shot. I wouldn't just fidget when I got impatient; a wave of anger would spread through my body. But there was something about Cale's phone call that caught my attention. Dustin's trial was tomorrow, and I had a strange feeling Cale was talking to him.

“She thinks I'm letting her go after the trial,” he said and paused. “I know you want to be the one to do it.” Another pause. “Yes, I'll take care of it if you don't get out.” He let out a long sigh. “Accidental overdose—I know the plan.” Pause. “No, I can handle it.”

My whole body began to shake. Blood rushed to my face, and my skin broke out in a layer of sweat.

Cale had never planned on letting me go. He just wanted me to think that so I'd cooperate, and the heroin was to keep me sedated and quiet. Or maybe Dustin wanted me high and in a nod so I wouldn't fight him while he screwed me one last time. It didn't matter. Unless I escaped, one of them was going to kill me. He would continue to inject me with smack until it caused my heart to stop beating. I had fresh track marks on my arms; the cloth around my wrists and ankles prevented the rope from burning my skin. One of them would probably dump me in an alley, and the police would never suspect a thing. I would be just another junkie who had shot too much, and my criminal record would back that up.

My eyes connected with Cale's as soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs. A syringe was in his hand. A frown was on his face. Based on his expression, the phone call had bothered him. His tone hadn't been convincing; it didn't sound like Cale could handle what he had promised.

He moved behind me and slapped my arm, waiting for a vein to pop. “Sorry I took so long.”

I didn't want him to know I'd overheard his conversation. If I acted clueless, maybe he would let me out of these ropes. Then I could find a way out. My chances weren't good, but I had to try.

“Hurry up,” I said. “I want it.”

The needle pierced my skin.

My chin dropped.

“You be good while I'm gone,” he said as he climbed the stairs.

*   *   *

Cale set me on the floor in the basement and sat next to me. He had let me take a shower and change my clothes because I had thrown up on myself again. But this time it wasn't that the heroin made me sick; I had gagged myself with my tongue. I needed a reason for him to untie me.

While I was in the shower, I repeated in my head everything I had heard during that phone call. Yet my body craved another shot. My veins ached for the stabbing of a needle. I had fallen in love again. Although it was just days ago that I'd been sober, it felt like years. My addiction was pulling me into the darkness; a force equally as strong was telling me I would die if I didn't get out of the basement. And I was questioning what to do even though the answer should have been obvious. I wanted more heroin.

Standing under the spray, my hair snarly from Cale's cheap shampoo and my skin waxy from his soap, I was startled by Michael's voice…reminding me of everything I had. I hadn't forgotten; I was just putting something else first. But Michael was right—I didn't want the life of a junkie.

I wanted to live.

I didn't know what would happen if the state's lead witness didn't show up, didn't know whether the judge would delay the trial. It didn't matter. I had to get out of here as quickly as I could.

In front of Cale were two fresh needles still in their packages, several bundles of dope, and everything he used to prepare it. He usually went upstairs and locked the door while he got my shot ready.

“Why do you have two needles?” I asked.

“My dealer only had heroin. He was out of everything else.”

“That's a problem?”

“I've never used H.”

Most addicts would sub one drug for another, especially when we were into the hard stuff like smack or meth—and Cale was. Getting high was the ultimate goal, after all. Cale was weak.

There was weakness in his voice when he had been on the phone, and it showed on his face when he came downstairs. He was much bigger and stronger than I was; I wouldn't be able to outrun him or tie him up. Getting out of the basement would be too hard. But maybe I could get Mark to come here. The bulge in Cale's front pocket was shaped like a cell phone. He would feel my fingers if I tried to steal it, which meant I had to get him to take his pants off. So far he had proved he was loyal to Dustin. Maybe I could change that.

“Have you ever had sex on E?” I asked.

He grinned. “There's nothing like it.”

We were both leaning against the wall, but I turned toward him and uncrossed my legs. “You know that tingling feeling you get? The sparks that shoot through your whole body when you're on E?” I met his eyes. “That's what heroin is going to do to you.” I placed my fingers on his knee, drawing small shapes with my nails. “Every muscle is going to react.” I traveled up and stopped at the top of his thigh. “You're going to need a woman.”

His lips parted and his eyes widened.

“When I'm high, I crave lollipops.” I reached for his hand and gripped it between mine. “I like to twirl my tongue around them and—”