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Upon stepping outside, I’m smacked in the face with the most powerful gust of ice-chilling wind that I’ve ever felt in my entire friggin’ life, and the only thought running through my head is a simple why?
Why the hell am I doin’ this right now?
There is no logical reason, and I’m well aware of that.
Yet, I’m still here, trudging through the unsteady snow-covered pavement, with two cigarettes and a lighter in my pant’s pocket for what?
God only knows.
Every gust of wind that hits me feels like a goddamn push — as if someone’s pushing me to the ground, aiming to make me fall flat on my ass. And I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up in that position: face down in the middle of the fuckin’ snow looking like some kind of drugged up psychiatric patient who just escaped the mental hospital.
It’s impulsive.
It’s always impulsive.
Decisions that involve going outside in the freezing cold weather to smoke two cigarettes while wearing no jacket is as impulsive as it gets.
Especially when there’s close to nothing in my stomach besides a few glasses of green tea.
The urge came on so suddenly. It came out of absolutely nowhere , and despite the lack of explanation I’m still out here.
There is nothing that can or will stop me from jumping headfirst into this at this point.
Nothing.
My hands are shaking profusely from the near freezing temperature, but I continue seeking out a hidden spot anyway — a place where no one will be able to see me.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed about smoking, nah, ‘cause Lord knows I’ve done a lot worse, but there’s some level of cringeworthy shame I can’t shake… I hate smoking.
I’ve said it countless times — how ironic it is that an alcoholic could possibly hate smoking — but this isn’t the first time I’ve found myself lighting up one or two sporadically.
It sure as hell won’t be the last, either.
There’s something about the buzz of nicotine that settles my disarrayed soul; something about the way the toxic smoke travels through my clean lungs that provides a sense of ease.
A sick, delusional form of comfort.
Because what else is there to do when you’re stuck in your place with countless hours to yourself?
Yeah, I could drink, but I haven’t. For some reason, I’d rather be out here, freezing my ass off, lighting up a cigarette just for the sake of nothing.
‘Cause that makes a helluva lot of sense.
Whether it makes an ounce of sense or not doesn’t sway my intentions in the slightest. I’m out here, and I’m not goin’ back in until I’ve killed my lungs with as many toxins as I possibly could.
Guess that’s my reason.
Self-inflicted harm.
The stealthiness of what I’m doin’ induces a newfound wave of shame, and I hate it. I hate myself for how I’m acting, but I don’t hate myself enough to snap myself out of it and turn back around.
Why do I feel the need to be secretive about it?
That’s what friggin’ addicts do.
And sure, it’s no damn secret that I’m a dope fiend. I am an addict, but not with this.
This is just a sick urge that I have and screw it if I look like a goddamn idiot trying to fulfill it right now.
I’m well aware that if anyone is seeing me stumble around my development, they must think I’m either drunk, high, or a combination of both. And yet, I’m neither.
I’m just cold and desperate… for something.
Seeking out a safe place is more than arduous, and every second that passes without finding a good spot heightens my paranoia that someone – anyone – will see me. There is practically no area around me that’s the least bit hidden, except the back of my house. But even behind there, with the streetlights shining on me, it’ll still be impossible to shield myself completely.
But I don’t have much of a choice, so I succumb. It’s the least risky spot out here right now, and when desperate times arise, desperate measures gotta be taken.
Upon arriving in the self-proclaimed safe spot, I waste no time in pulling out my first cigarette and placing it between my lips, inducing an anticipatory tremble to shoot throughout every muscle in my body.
But, meeting the uncontrollable craving is more than arduous.
It’s the lighter that’s the problem.
The wind.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Every failed attempt at igniting the flame sends my heart racing in an overwhelmingly discombobulated fashion, while escalating the already intense paranoia I’ve been blanketed with since getting out here.
The urgency shooting through my entire body feels dehumanizing.
Friggin’ work, dammit! I needa’ get this done before anyone sees me!
A wave of alleviation crashes over me once my gaze meets the glorious visual of a, much-needed, dancing starburst.
My lips tremble with tantalization as the flame meets the tip of the contaminant-filled stick, which brings nothing but newfound, well-deserved, redemption.
The first inhale feels like a dream.
The buzz that hits me sends me into a hazy, unreal fantasyland, so much so that I’ve almost forgotten how fucking cold it is outside.
Drag.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I become further disconnected from reality with every whiff of nicotine that hits my lungs, and each exhale brings me a burst of powerful repose.
It also brings me unfaltering dizziness.
I don’t know if it’s due to the large amount of nicotine that my body isn’t used to, or if the freezing temperature is playing a part but I don’t remember ever feeling this lightheaded while smoking.
Not like this.
My eyes begin threatening to droop shut as I take another deep inhale which sends a disheartening wave of nausea through my empty stomach. The gnawing sensation almost feels empowering — relieving.
But along with the uncontrollable dizziness, I can’t help but rethink this decision to come out here and do this.
I can’t turn back now, though.
So, I grab onto the wall and lean my disoriented body against it as I continue taking long drags of the cigarette, in the dead of the freezing cold night, hidden in complete and utter isolation.
I feel alone.
I can’t stop at one, though. Despite the combination of unnerving fatigue, dizziness, and disorientation, I find no trouble lighting up another, and another, and another.
It’s once I find myself on the brim of lighting up my fifth when I decide I have to call it quits.
I can hardly hold myself up at this point and Lord knows if I inhale another ounce of toxins, I may as well drop dead. I sure as Hell feel close enough to it.
At the same time, I’m blanketed in a fucked up, discombobulated kinda daze — a sensation I’d get when I would fuck myself up on blow, booze, or whatever I was able to get my hands on — and yet, I’m completely sober.
Talk about a load of irony.
I stand frozen for more than a few moments, while staying leaned against the back of my house ‘cause I know for a fact if I were to move I’d pass the fuck out, right in the middle of the friggin’ snow.
Then, I’d really die a hypothermic death.
My mental capacity only feels half there as I stare into space, dazed off my ass, with the wind smacking me silly.
Finally, something clicks and on a whim, I toss the idle burning cigarette into the snow, and hastily begin to trudge along back to my front door.
But, the powerful wind gusts don’t hesitate to practically knock me on my ass.
Multiple times.
I can hardly move my feet along the snowy ground without stumbling and swaying back and forth like a drunken, disoriented mess. And that’s exactly what I feel like.
A drugged up mess.
Jesus Christ! Get on with it! People are gonna see ya if ya don’t get yourself together, Cec! Friggin’ hell stop stumblin—
“ Shit,” I hiss, dazed and frustrated, as I pick myself up from the ground for the third time, ‘cause falling on my ass twice just wasn’t enough apparently.
The universe just loves to screw with me…
I barely make it to my door before tripping over nothing for the fourth time, this time leaving my entire ass soakin wet and covered in ice cold snowy mush.
And once again, I ask myself what I’ve gotten myself into.
And why I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
Shivering profusely, I purse my lips and fight the urge to scream as I manage to bring mobility back to my hypothermic, frost-bitten fingers to turn the knob.
Upon entering — well, stumbling — into the house, I plop myself onto the couch.
“What….the fuck…”
I can hardly keep my eyes open as my surroundings swirl and distort in trippy, undulating patterns, so I succumb to letting them close for a moment.
My body falls into a secure, tightly woven fetal position, and I rest, allowing each and every muscle to sink into the warm embrace of the cushions.
It takes me longer than I should to reorient myself to reality, but I know one thing for sure.
I am not ever doing that again.
~*~
“Put the cigarette down, Cec.”
Bret’s blurred voice swims through the depths of my mind as huddle against the back of my house, once again, with a cigarette burning between my lips.
How and when did he get here? I have no clue, and I don’t have it in me to question any of the unforeseen circumstances. In fact, I really don’t give a shit.
Not that I give a shit about much of anything these days, anyway…
My mind has been a constant cloud of apathy, despondency, and numbness; an eerie disconnection. The vibrancy and vitality that I typically carry around has been difficult to connect to, and instead I’ve been wasting my days and nights drowning in a pool of hazy discombobulation, nagging self-hatred, and buckets of unspoken pain.
Pain that I refuse to release or tend to.
I shake my head with a dazed grin and watch Bret’s undulating figure get closer to me, but I pay him no mind.
Instead, I take another drag, letting my undulating focus marinate on the self-inflicted harm.
The alleviating destruction.
Bret takes a breath and releases a drawn out sigh, his exhale creating a misty cloud in the surrounding air.
“It’s freezing out here,” he says, nearly emotionless.
“ Heh ,” I sadistically titter through a long exhale, as my throat burns from the carcinogenic fumes, “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
My voice slips out slurred and incoherent.
Everything around me is hazy, discombobulated, and unreal.
Bret sighs, again, and squeezes one of my ice cold, trembling hands while my muscles stiffen, but not enough to snap me out of this nicotine induced trance.
“You’re drunk,” Bret whispers, his hot breath hitting the crook of my neck.
I shake my head, as my lips curl into a sardonic smirk.
“Not even close.”
“Well you sure seem like it.”
I laugh again, dryly, and take another drag which induces a wave of dizziness that sends my entire body down to the ground.
But I, once again, don’t give a shit.
“ Christ, Cec.”
I’m only half aware of Bret’s latch onto me but despite the worry radiating off of the singer, I continue smoking the cigarette down to the brim, paying no attention to how I’m practically being cradled by the guy.
I can handle this.
I don’t need him.
But, even if I did… I still wouldn’t accept the help.
Let me rot away for all I care… Life would be a helluva lot easier if that were to happen.
“Why are ya worryin’ bout me,” I murmur with my eyes half open and dazed, as my head falls onto Bret’s shoulder, “‘m jus… I dunno… What am I doin… when do I know what I’m doin….”
My slurs intensify with every word that slips from my mouth, and it’s no lie that I feel like I’m trippin’ balls.
I don’t know what’s goin’ on.
What the hellll is goin’ on….
“Let’s get you inside, Cec,” is all that Bret replies with.
Although I can hardly comprehend a damn word that’s being said, I can process that statement, and I’m not willing to entertain that idea.
None of it.
Despite how fucked up I feel right now, I don’t see any problem with stayin’ out here like this.
It’s what my screwed up ass deserves, isn’t it?
“‘M not ready,” I protest with a slurred whine, “Not finished…”
And I can’t even bring the half burnt cigarette back to my lips before Bret knocks the stick out of my hand. He tightens his grip on me and the only reason I know I’m being lifted up from the ground is ‘cause my ass suddenly doesn’t feel like it’s sinking into a bucket of ice.
My eyes can’t stay open, though. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get them to focus on anything.
Fuck me.
I’m gone.
“C’mon… Cec… Hey!”
It’s only once Bret snaps his fingers directly in front of me while calling my name when I somehow snap my eyes open. And it’s at this moment that I realize I’m no longer outside.
I’m in my fucking house.
Friggin’ hell… what the fuccck am I doin’—
“Snap out of it, Cec!”
“Whaaa?” I furrow my brows and blink a few times, attempting to get in touch with my surroundings but everything only feels like a drugged up haze.
A sharp shiver wracks my body and I involuntarily curl into myself, letting out a loud, disoriented groan as my head falls to one side. Side of what? Fuckin’ hell I don’t even know where I am… what I’m doin…
“Lie your ass down,” Bret directs, and I feel myself being maneuvered onto something… cushiony, “You’re drunk… You can’t even hold yourself up.”
“‘M not druuuunk,” I argue, but I can’t say another word before Bret hushes me while covering my limp, shivering body with a blanket.
Once I’m coated with the newfound sense of warmth, my body just about sinks into the couch cushions, and a sudden odd sense of consolation washes over me.
I can’t argue any-more.
“You’re an idiot , Cec.”
Through my rapidly escalating disorientation, Bret’s solicitous voice undulates through my befuddled head, and I could swear I feel him latching onto one of my hands but I don’t have it in me to move. Honestly, I’m burnt.
Might as well be blasted off ya tree with the way you’re friggin’ feeling right now!
“You’re a fucking idiot,” the singer croaks in a doomful tone, “and I’m worried about you.”
All I wanna do is tell him to shut up but I’m so fuckin’ out of it right now that I can’t even get myself to do that. And trust me, that’s sayin’ something.
If I can’t open my goddamn mouth, it’s bad.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this is scary,” he reiterates with heightening concern in his voice, his breath growing closer to my depleted body, “Seeing you doing shit like this again is scary—“
“I’m fineee , Bret,” I murmur with my face pressed into the couch, “Just cold and…”
A long, loud, yawn escapes my lips, cutting my sentence short, but even so…
Even in the state that I’m in right now, I know that if I were to finish what I wanted to say, Bret wouldn’t believe me.
All I do is fuckin’ lie.
“You gotta get yourself together, Cec. Whatever crap you’ve got going around in your head’s gotta stop. You gotta get it under control—“
I don’t needa’ fuckin’ do anything Bret so how about ya shut the fuck up! I neva’ asked ya to come here anyway so why the friggin’ fuck are ya in my goddamn house—
“I can’t keep standing around while you do this shit to yourself,” he reiterates as more unwarranted hurt drips off his tongue, which sounds more discombobulated by the second, “I can’t stand here watching you destroy yourself again, Cec! I can’t!”
All I can do is let out a flat sigh as my body sinks further and further into the couch. I don’t have it in me to move at all. At this point, I feel like a goddamn vegetable, without a damn ounce of vitality left in this friggin’ useless container of a body.
Guess that’s what happens to ya when ya continuously abuse your body like there’s no tomorrow. Ya turn into a disconnected, hollow, stupid fuck.
Hell, I’ve always been an idiotic bastard! What’s the friggin’ difference?!
My eyes droop completely shut just as that disoriented, yet reality stricken thought undulates through my befuddled head, and the next thing I know…
I could swear I feel someone’s hand running through my hair, but what the hell do I know?! I feel stoned ; stoned on starvation and nicotine.
Blasted off my friggin’ tree all due to self-neglect. Isn’t that something?!
I don’t know anythin’ any-more!
“I love you to death, Cec… I just wish I knew how to help you, but I don’t. It’s gotta come from you and that’s one of the worst fucking parts of this, man…”
I’m hardly able to comprehend anything from the singer — well, at least that’s who I think is talkin’ to me — Oh for fuck’s sake, I don’t rememba’ my mind feelin’ this broken ever since I was snorting lines of friggin’ blow every half hour.
If I didn’t know better, I’m sure I wouldda’ thought someone slipped me somethin’ over the course of the last few hours… or has it been days… weeks even…
Friggin’ hell, I’m a goddamn mess.
Through the increasing and intensifying bewilderment invading each and every tissue of my being, I nuzzle into the singer’s touch, even though I’m hardly aware of my surroundings at the moment. That’s about the only movement I’m capable of engaging in at this point.
Luckily, Bret doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t pull away… In fact, I’m sure he’s welcoming the closeness, believe it or not…
And even though it’s the last thing I believe I deserve at this moment — intimacy, love, tenderness, security — there’s still a tiny part of me that craves those very elements of life. And it's shameful; it makes me feel even worse about myself and the asshole I’ve become… and yet… I can’t resist.
Although my perception of just about everything is skewed beyond belief right now, I still need this. I need the touch of safety; the blanket of security that conceals the darkness within.
Bret.
I need his warm, hot, steamy breath making contact with my icy, ashen skin as it leaves the hair on my arms sticking up with goosebumps forming at an unnerving pace. I need him close to me…
And yet, I need him to stop caring about me.
I need him to punish me and treat me like the piece of trash that I am, but he’ll never do that. No matter how hard I try to twist his intentions and get him to see that he’s wasting his time tending to my fucked up, self-destructive, selfish ass, the compassion just never seems to falter in the slightest.
There’s nothin’ I can do to stop him.
He’ll just continue givin’ a shit til the day he friggin’ dies.
Or… til the day I die.
‘Cause at the rate in which things are goin’ I’m sure I’ll be the first to succumb to the more than desirable fate.
Except, the universe doesn’t want me to take the easy way out, and that’s why I’m still here.
I should be dead.
I should be.
But I’m not.
Nothin’ like the joys of unwanted immortality. All the blood, sweat and tears I’ve put into attemptin’ to get a one-way ticket to the pitfalls of Hell have gotten me absolutely fuckin’ nowhere.
It’s just left me suffering more than I eva’ have in my life; suffering while trapped on the ground of this fuckin’ Earth.
It’s the last place I wanna be.
Life is just a cruel, sick, joke.
That’s about the last semi-coherent cognitive strand that swims through my blurred mind before I really begin to drift off into what can only be described as an endless abyss of nothingness.
If only I could stay in such a dark, decrepit, soulless hole for all of eternity.