by Nic Sheff
I hold Zelda with such aching—never wanting to let her go. I’m going to protect her forever. The feelings are so deep in me. We both cry and I feel her tears on me.
I belong to her.
She belongs to me.
We have shared our very cores and I love her so much.
Really.
I’m crazy with it.
All I can think about is her. It fuels everything in me. It is a feeling of absolute bliss—maybe even better than crystal meth.
Zelda has become my whole world.
After Forest Lawn, Zelda and I go out to lunch at a place on Robertson. She orders for us, knowing exactly what she wants. We split a meatball sandwich, a salad, and cappuccino gelato. It’s all perfect. I’m in awe of her.
Tonight, however, we’re going to a screening—compliments of me. I’ve been reviewing movies for Nerve steadily since I first submitted that capsule for Bad Education. Not only that, but I’ve been granted an interview with Mr. Bungle’s front man, Mike Patton, and Yuka Honda, the songwriter for Cibo Matto. They’re paying me three hundred dollars per interview. That feels like a lot of money to me and tonight I’m taking Zelda to a screening of the new movie by the director of City of God. It’s based on some spy novel and it stars Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz. It’s called the The Constant Gardener and I’m very excited.
Zelda seems used to the whole screening thing, and as we sit down, she falls asleep on my shoulder. I watch the whole movie like that, with her literally snoring against me. I’m embarrassed as I leave—apologizing to a few of the actors who attended the screening. Zelda is hard to wake up and I just manage to guide her home. I assume she’s tired and I write the review on my laptop while she’s passed out on the bed.
When she wakes up, it’s around one o’clock. She jumps up just as I’m falling asleep.
“What? What’s going on?” she asks, almost yelling it.
I look up. Her eyes are wide.
“Where am I?” she says.
I grab her shoulders tight. “You’re here. You’re here, in your apartment. You’re here with me, Nic.”
“Oh, Nic,” she says. “I love you.”
My whole body seems to shudder at that. “Zelda,” I say, kissing her sweating forehead, “I love you so much. You fell asleep, you know?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says slowly. “Nic, um, I have to tell you something. I’m, well, narcoleptic. You need to know that. And my sponsor doesn’t allow me to take any medication. After coming off all the antidepressants and everything, my doctor has told me I’m narcoleptic. He’s a great doctor. Maybe you’ll meet him sometime. His name is Dr. E. I’ve been with him since I can remember.”
Narcoleptic? I just laugh. Of course Zelda is narcoleptic. That goes along with everything else crazy and devastating in her life.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” I say.
“No, no,” she says. “That’s all right.”
We talk for a while. Well, mostly she does all the talking and I just listen. Out of nowhere she brings up this relationship she had with the lead singer for a famous punk band.
“Have you heard this story?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Well, I was newly sober again and I was out with some friends. As I was leaving this club, this guy comes up and hands me his number, telling me I should call him if I was brave enough. I liked that come-on and it was only later that I found out who he was.”
She tells me about moving in with this guy, T, and how the first night she came home to their place, he was lying on the bed wearing a white slip and high heels. She had to stop herself from laughing.
“I mean,” she says, “I’m so not into that.”
I listen to her stories about their crazy sex—T was doing speedballs and stuff, while she couldn’t, so he rubbed it in her face. He left his diary next to their bed, open to a page that was titled “Zelda: Pros and Cons.” At the top of the Pros list was her connection with her ex-husband. I guess he was sort of brutal and mean to her—always putting her down. He was obsessed with the female guitar player of his band. Zelda says he could never stop talking about her.
Zelda felt more and more jealous and beaten up. Finally, one night, she relapsed on heroin. The next day she told T she was through with him. He told her that was all right, but he wanted a favor first. He wanted her to fuck him in the ass with a strap-on.
“So I did.” She laughs. “I figured, why not? I gave it to him as hard as I could and, you know, I have to give him credit—he took it really well.”
“Jesus,” I say.
There’s a coldness inside me—like a numbing chill under my skin. I know her story was supposed to be funny, but I just feel lost—intimidated—unworthy of her. It’s just more proof that she’s so much more sophisticated and cool than I could ever be. Most of her stories make me feel that way. The other day she was looking through a photo album and almost all her ex-boyfriends are, well, somebody. Her friends are all famous and she’s met almost everybody. All my experiences, however crazy, are nothing compared with Zelda’s.
But all that does is make me want her more. There’s this feeling like if I can have her, then that must mean I’m worth something. If she chooses me, then I will finally be able to feel good about myself. Zelda gets up to go to the bathroom. She closes the door and I hear the lock click. I manage to turn over and fall into a deep sleep.
I hear the pounding on the door a few hours later. Looking around, I see Zelda must still be in the bathroom, ’cause the door is shut with a light just creeping out from beneath the crack. My stomach goes tight as I realize who it must be outside.
“Zelda.” I hear Mike’s voice coming through.
Not knowing what else to do, I call out, “Mike, man, hey, this probably isn’t the best time.”
The silence that follows is so long it’s almost audible. I feel like I’m just writhing in the heat of the tension that is burning me alive. What is Mike doing here? I thought they were done.
I’m almost trembling. I hate confrontation.
Suddenly he calls out again, “Zelda, open the fucking door.”
Zelda opens the bathroom door and leans her head out. “Who is it?”
I tell her.
“Oh, shit.” She puts clothes on real quick and walks over to me.
The knocking on the door won’t stop.
“Listen,” she says to me, looking straight in my eyes. “Please don’t worry and don’t get involved.”
“Okay,” I say, not knowing how to get involved anyway.
Zelda opens the door and walks out and I hear Mike say, “What, did I interrupt you? Did I interrupt you fucking? Did I?” I hear her asking him to be quiet and then some muffled arguing.
I lie on the bed, holding my body in the fetal position—hyperventilating a little. I feel like a small child again, covering my ears while my parents argued. I feel this cold heat inside and I’m suddenly terrified that Zelda is going to leave me. I want to call Spencer but I know he’s asleep. I lie on the bed, just trying to shut my eyes—to make it all go away.
And now I think about using. I find myself wishing so bad that I knew where to score some crystal. A shot would take all the pain away and I wouldn’t care at all. But as it is, I do care. I wrap myself up tight in the blanket, pressing the pillow to my ear so I can’t hear them screaming at each other.
It’s fifteen minutes later when Zelda bursts back into the room.
“I called the police. He won’t be back tonight.” She explodes into tears, collapsing on the floor and sobbing so damn hard. I weave myself around her and she cries and cries. I tell her how much I love her and how amazing she is, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference. She just keeps saying how mean he was—how hurtful.
“They’re lies,” I say. “None of what he said was true.”
“No,” she says. “He’s right. You don’t know me, baby. There are parts of me that, if I showed them to you, well, you’d be out the door so fast.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say.
But she just cries on and nothing I say seems to make any difference at all. I don’t know what he said exactly, but whatever it was cut right through her.
“No one who really loves you could ever treat you that way. True love is wanting what’s best for that person, no matter what. Mike coming here for you is something else. It’s something sick and selfish—but it’s definitely not love.”
“I know,” she keeps saying, but it feels like she still believes whatever he said was right, and for the first time ever, I really feel like physically hurting someone. I want to tear that motherfucker apart. It’s like this instinctive impulse coursing through me.
“Zelda, what did he say?”
She just cries.
“Zelda, please, tell me.”
She talks into my shoulder—pressing her face against me. “He said he knew I was gonna use again and that he was going to piss on my grave after I die. He said I was worthless and was going to kill myself in the next year.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “He’s so fucking disgusting.”
“No,” she says. “He knows me better than anyone. I mean, Nic, you have to understand that there’s a part of me that still loves him. I spent the last three years with him. I can’t just forget that after one month of being with you.”
That hurts so bad. I mean, it just destroys me.
“You deserve better than him,” I finally say.
“I know,” she says. “I know. I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too.”
Zelda takes some pills from her purse and we lie down on the bed. She is distant and I hold her till she falls asleep. I am scared. I am so fucking scared.
DAY 352
I sleep some, but wake up real early and drive to that spin class in West L.A. before work. I pedal fast, drenched in sweat and working my legs hard. It doesn’t take the pain of the night away, but it helps some. I wonder what Spencer would tell me to do? He’d probably say something about how I should pray for Zelda and Mike—just pray for them. After all, seeking to help others always takes one out of oneself. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, anyway.
So I actually try it. While doing the sprints and climbs on the stationary bike, I just hold that prayer in my thoughts. As I’m pushing my body to its utter limit, I distract myself with a sort of mantra—chanting a prayer for Mike and Zelda. And the thing is, it does seem to help. I get this spiritual and physical high, feeling so connected to whatever God is—or might be. I am suddenly no longer an individual entity, but I am one with some sort of greater entity—like the blanket idea in David O. Russell’s I Heart Huckabees. In the movie, Dustin Hoffman talks about the universe as being a great white blanket, covering everything. Within the blanket there are individual manifestations of existence: e.g., you, me, the Eiffel Tower, an orgasm. They are all separate entities, created by the same coherent fabric of “the blanket.” Anyway, the combination of praying and exercising to that extreme brings me to an ecstatic place—a height where I feel like I’ve become a part of that EVERYTHING once again.
It’s like drugs.
I mean, it is.
Shooting crystal was the only way I ever got to connect with that “oneness” in the past. On the verge of death—chemicals turning my blood to poison—barely able to speak or move—in that helpless state of drug addiction, I have experienced a sense of connection with the very essence of death and life that has been unparalleled. And, similar to that, working out to the absolute furthest extremes of my body’s capacity—my lungs and legs torn apart—while using Spencer’s methods of prayer and talking to God, well, it is euphoric. It has replaced drugs for me, absolutely.
It is such a great high.
On my way to work from the spinning studio, I call Spencer, wanting to talk to him about everything that’s happened.
He answers the phone while he’s walking Lucy to school.
“Hey, Spencer,” I say.
“Nic—what’s up, brother?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “Did you work out this morning?”
He pauses for a moment. “Uh, no. Did you?”
I tell him I have. It’s weird, but I feel really kind of competitive with Spencer about our exercising. I always need to ride harder than he does. When we go out on our bikes together, I have to lead—or beat him up the hills—or something. I’m not sure what that’s all about.
There’s this strange rivalry that has developed between us. Honestly, it feels like the relationship I have with my dad. It’s like—I admire them both, but I also want so badly to be better than them. The feeling is all-consuming. Every time I talk to my dad, all I want to do is show him how well I’m doing—maybe trying to make him jealous, because, hell, I’m jealous of him. I’m jealous of his career as a writer. I’m jealous that he has built up this wholesome family for himself that doesn’t include me. I mean, I just want to be better than him.
Talking with Spencer has become something like that for me. I think about Spencer like he’s my goddamn father. The parallels are undeniable.
There are certain ways in which I want so desperately to be a part of Spencer’s family—really a part of the world he and Michelle have created for Lucy. I want to be her brother; I want Michelle to care about me like she cares for her daughter. I just wanna start over—with Jasper and Daisy—with Lucy.
But, sadly, I know that is all a fantasy. I have to live as myself and that I can never escape—no matter how hard I try. So, talking with Spencer as he walks Lucy to school, all I feel is this need to be better than him. Maybe there’s some anger—some resentment? I don’t know how to block it out from my mind, but everything is coming out so aggressively toward him. I tell him about what happened last night. He tells me that I might want to take it as a sign to not get involved in this whole mess.
I dismiss what he says. I’m not gonna argue with him, but he just obviously doesn’t understand. What Zelda and I have together is something more powerful than anyone can comprehend. I almost feel sorry for Spencer as we’re talking. He just doesn’t get it. A love like mine and Zelda’s is more incredible than anything Spencer has ever known. He seems pathetic to me.
Spencer and I get off the phone quickly. I can barely listen to him these days. It is strange because there was a time when I held on to every word Spencer said as though it were the utter gospel truth. He always says, “What you’ve been doing hasn’t been working, so why not follow someone else’s direction for once?” Only a month ago that was exactly what I was doing—following everything Spencer told me. Now I suddenly feel like things have changed—like maybe Spencer should be taking advice from me.
Going to work, I feel such spite for my job. I’m bored and irritable and I find myself really fighting to be nice to everyone. Also I’m just very freaked out about what’s going to happen after last night. It’s hard to focus and I make all these stupid mistakes around the salon—double-booking clients and taking appointments without getting phone numbers, or names, or something. I’m not sure if anyone notices it, but I feel slow and I just can’t pay attention.
The day is long. It stretches on painfully.
When I get home to Zelda’s apartment, I find that she hasn’t left the bed all day. She called in sick from work. She says she’s starting to feel dizzy and she wants me to go to tonight’s twelve-step meeting without her. I’m concerned that she’s not coming with me, but I figure she doesn’t feel good, so whatever. It’s hot, hot, hot and I fill our swamp cooler with ice and water to help make the room more bearable. The utilities are included with her rent, so she’s not allowed to have a regular air conditioner. I kiss Zelda three times on the forehead, short, longer, longest.
“Please,” she says, turning away. “I don’t feel good.”
That hurts. I almost panic when she says it. There’s a cold terror inside and I feel needles all under my skin. I could never imagine shunning Zelda like that no matter how sick I felt. I�
��m worried that I’m really losing her. My mind races to try to say the right thing—do the right thing—pull her back to me.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” I ask.
“No, no, you go to the meeting.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I think I just have vertigo or something. I might be able to get some medicine from my doctor. Don’t look so scared. Everything is all right.”
That calms me some. Maybe I was overreacting.
“I love you,” I say.
“Nic, I love you.”
“It’s just…”
“I know, I know,” she says. “That was a really hard night.”
“I’m so worried you’re gonna go back to him.”
“Nic, I promise, I will never go back to Mike. I swear on my mother’s soul.”
That’s all the comfort I need. The worry and fear and everything lifts and I manage to just feel like we are back to normal again, or as normal as we can ever be.
“You sure I can’t bring you anything?” I ask again, as I get ready to leave.
She tells me that she might want a milkshake from Café 101 if I have time on my way back. She also offers to let me drive her Jetta to the meeting so I don’t have to worry about moving my car.
Driving to the meeting in Zelda’s Jetta, I feel so cool. Secretly, I want everyone at the meeting to notice me driving her car. I wish I could broadcast it. As it is, I find some way of mentioning it to all my friends.
The meeting on Prospect and Rodney in Los Feliz is more a social thing than anything else. I’ve managed to work myself into the sort of elite group that sits along the back wall. There’s Josh, Karen, this guy Eric, who writes Hollywood screenplays. There’s Voltaire, Josh’s sponsor, who is a drug counselor and a doorman at local nightclubs. Ria, the manager of the Sober Living I went to, is there, plus Vakeeza, a spray-on-tan model. I notice one really well-known actor sitting by us, along with the drummer for a punk band from the seventies. I feel confident talking with everyone—joking and whatever. Voltaire makes fun of me a little about Zelda, but I’m proud of it. He knew her from way back when she was first trying to get sober.
