We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  See, there’s this new girl working tonight. She started a couple days ago, and it’s not like we’ve even really talked or anything, but here she is, handing me a small baggy and whispering, “Here, quick, put this in your pocket before somebody sees.”

  The half-pint of vodka I drank on the way over here probably isn’t helping my judgment any, but who am I kidding? I’m sure I woulda done what she told me anyway.

  “Wh-what is it?” I whisper back, studying her round, cherubic face. She’s a tiny little girl with brown ringlets in her hair like Shirley Temple or something. Actually, I’d say she looks a lot like Shirley Temple in general, with dimples and a goddamn perfect button nose. Her teeth are small and spaced apart like a child’s. Her arms and hands are practically in miniature. Her voice is babyish, almost like it’s been sped up on one of those old reel-to-reel machines.

  Of course, I’d like to be able to say that her eyes betray something secret and sinister hiding beneath the surface, but as far as I can tell, they’re just about as open and innocent as can be. As it is, I’m not even sure I hear her right when she says, “Come on, I know you party, don’t you?”

  I nod, even though I don’t want it to be true anymore.

  “Well,” she says, quieter, her mouth pressed up close to my ear, “that’s just a sample my husband wanted me to give out. He got a shipment of coke in the other day, and he’s offering some really great deals. So you go ahead and try that, and let me know if you need to get in touch with him, okay?”

  My chest feels all tight suddenly—my lungs contracted—the air knocked out of me, like I just jumped out a window and then splattered across the sidewalk.

  Somehow, I have a small bag of coke in my pocket.

  And the truth is, I’m fucking scared.

  But I don’t let on. I mean, I thank her, asking for her phone number and promising to call in the next couple of days.

  That’s what a stand-up guy I am.

  Christ.

  She goes off to check on her table, and me? I go straight to the goddamn bathroom.

  Looking at the little ball of white packed powder, I can’t help but laugh. I mean, as much as my drinking has gotten kind of out of control recently, I know damn well I’m a whole lot better off than I would be if I were using hard drugs again. I know what hard drugs have done to my life. Hell, they’re the reason I’m stuck in the goddamn South working at this goddamn restaurant. They’ve basically destroyed everything I’ve ever had. And I was totally cool staying away from them.

  I mean, fuck. When I was using, there was no way some random person would come hand me a bag of coke. That would’ve been, like, the happiest day of my life.

  So I guess it makes sense that now that I’m trying to stay clear of it, someone walks up and just stuffs it in my pocket. That really is the way this fucked-up world works, isn’t it?

  Obviously, what I should do is flush the shit right now.

  What I do instead is open the bag to see if it smells like the real thing.

  It does.

  The chunk she gave me really isn’t that big, but it’d be enough to make up a pretty strong shot if I had a needle.

  My mind plays out possible scenarios for scoring needles.

  Honestly, I can’t think of any.

  My eyes dart quickly over all the bathroom surfaces.

  Nowhere to set up a line except for on the tank above the toilet, which is kinda gnarly, though I’ve definitely done it before.

  Fuck it, I tell myself. The sooner I get rid of this shit, the sooner I don’t have to think about it anymore.

  I set up a line.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I take the powder up my goddamn nose.

  Ch.25

  Sue Ellen leaves early for class.

  The door slams shut, and I immediately pull myself up to a half-sitting position, my ears straining to hear the signs that she’s really gone—the car engine firing, the wheels spinning against the gravel, the vague hint of music from the car stereo fading into the distance.

  I listen till I’m sure. Though, of course, I still have to be careful. She could’ve forgotten something. Her class could be canceled. Or she could just randomly decide to come home early. Really, there’s no way of knowing absolutely.

  But after waiting all the rest of last night and then feigning sleep for the past hour after the alarm went off, I’m not sure I could hold back now, even if she were still here. As ridiculous as this sounds, it’s almost as if there’s some invisible person whispering in my ear, repeating the word over and over—“cocaine, cocaine, cocaine.” Like a haunting, beautiful woman caressing my throat with the tips of her fingers—stripping off her clothes—pressing the warm softness of her body up against mine so I can feel every nerve ending just screaming with arousal.

  Cocaine.

  My tongue swells.

  Cocaine.

  I can’t speak any other word.

  Cocaine.

  I close my eyes and I see Zelda there, penetrating me with the needle in her hand, the thin trickle of blood running down the curve of my forearm. We kiss each other with desperate sadness and urgency, even as the cocaine explodes into the recesses of our minds—leaving us gasping—flooded with pleasure—our barrier of skin dissolved so our lungs and muscles and veins tangle together—the two of us one. Together—together—one—always.

  Cocaine has brought her back to me.

  Cocaine has brought me back to her.

  And I am so disgusted with the choices I’ve made.

  I mean, how could I have abandoned her the way I did?

  How could I have settled for this rotting, stale half-life—drinking alcohol all day long so I don’t have to face what I’ve become?

  What I need is another line of coke.

  So I steady myself, leaning against the doorframe while the first pulses of nausea convulse through my body. My head feels drained of all blood, like I might pass out any second. I have to keep hold of the counter surface while I struggle to pull the bottle of cheap-ass vodka out from where I’ve hidden it behind the refrigerator.

  The first burning gulps of liquid make me gag, but I’m stronger already. I can feel the warmth in my belly fortifying my legs and arms so I can stand on my own again. I finish that bottle and then go to the front window, looking out to make sure Sue Ellen’s car really is gone.

  It is.

  Having been replaced by a scraggly-looking bobtail cat lying contemptuously in the sun—flicking its tail—the sky pale blue and cloudless overhead.

  Another bright, sunny day.

  Christ.

  I pull the blinds closed and check the locks on the door, making sure to secure the dead bolt so that if Sue Ellen comes home early, I’ll have a little extra time to hide shit and whatever.

  My mind plays over the possibilities of the day.

  Mostly I just want to do the rest of the coke so I can get some really good writing done—especially since I’m pretty close to finishing the rough draft. The coke will give me a new perspective on what I’ve been working on and, I hope, help me figure out how to end the goddamn thing. I mean, I don’t know, somehow writing the ending has been by far the hardest part. But the coke will give me the creativity I need to think up something really great. It’ll help me see the truth. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Man, I remember when I was living with Zelda, we’d shoot coke in the bathroom and then I’d go out and write the dopest shit for just like hours and hours without stopping. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was the dopest shit—even if my editor kept telling me it made no sense and I needed to get into treatment. She probably just said that ’cause she knew I was relapsing. She was probably just trying to help me get clean. The writing was good. At least, I think it was. And I know this coke’s gonna bring me back to that place—a place where I can write without any self-doubt or insecurity—a place of raw inspiration.

  ’Cause the thing is, even if the rest of my life is a total go
ddamn failure, as long as I’m writing, well, at least that’s something to hold on to. And if I need coke to help me keep writing, then that’s just the way it’s gotta be. I’ll use my tip money to buy a gram tomorrow. It’s really not a problem.

  So I put some music on the stereo.

  David Bowie, of course.

  Aladdin Sane.

  I set up a line on the kitchen counter.

  I wish I had a rig, but I don’t.

  I take the line up a rolled dollar bill.

  The drip down my throat is bitter—putrid.

  My jaw clenches, and this fierce sensuality rocks my body.

  I imagine Sue Ellen coming home.

  I could show her the dark sexuality in me she’s never seen. We could make love the way I used to make love with Zelda.

  But, no, Sue Ellen wouldn’t want that. If anything, I’d be ashamed to expose her to it. I mean, she’d be terrified and overwhelmed, and I would only end up hurting her even more than she’s already been hurt. I couldn’t do that to her. There’s almost a sick feeling in my stomach thinking about it. I’m suddenly repulsed by myself.

  I mean, I love Sue Ellen. What I had with Zelda was dark and twisted and exciting, but it was all about death. Hell, everything in my life has been about death. This depression I have, this mania, this endless thirst. I have nothing positive to offer. I am a draining, sucking, using, consuming parasite. Sue Ellen doesn’t deserve this. She deserves goodness. She deserves light. All I can offer her is destruction—death.

  I’ll kill her like I’ve killed everything else.

  Unless I finally take myself away.

  Away so that I can’t keep hurting all the people I love.

  Fuck.

  I mean, what the hell is happening? I’m doing coke. This should be fun.

  But suddenly all I want is to be normal again—normal like I was before—before I was getting high, before I was drinking.

  I mean, back then there was a time when I was happy, wasn’t there?

  “Fuck,” I say aloud, through my teeth all clenched tight. “Motherfucker.”

  I force my legs to take me over to the computer.

  Writing will help. Writing will make it all worthwhile.

  I light a cigarette, staring at the words on the monitor, trying to read over my last paragraph. My hands tremble against the keyboard. I write a few sentences—stopping and starting and stopping again—the words all jumbled—my mind refusing to listen to me—my mind repeating the same thing over and over.

  My mind tells me to go into the bathroom.

  My mind tells me to open the mirrored medicine cabinet.

  My mind tells me to take the bottle of Tylenol PM into my hand.

  I pop open the childproof cap, spilling out maybe twenty blue-and-white pills onto the counter.

  Mix those with another bottle of vodka, I figure, and that should pretty well do it.

  The tears come burning hot against my cheeks.

  The breath is all stolen out of me, and I crouch against the tile floor, suddenly crying so hard it hurts to swallow.

  I call out, just sort of trying to hear the sound of my voice.

  It’s time to end this shit.

  I know that’s the truth.

  Hell, it should’ve been done a long time ago, before I had the chance to hurt so many people. And I swear I’m not being all self-pitying or anything—it’s just a fact. The world would be better off without me. Sue Ellen would be better off. My family would be better off. They would all finally be able to stop worrying. I wouldn’t be able to manipulate them anymore. I wouldn’t be able to build them up with hope again, only to knock them down—like I always do.

  A shivering cold contorts my body.

  I tell myself to reach into my pocket. I make myself do it, pulling out the rest of the coke, tossing it quickly into the toilet—sickened—feeling the cold metal handle like a static shock against my fingers as I flush the drugs down.

  Sweat soaks through my T-shirt so it is wet and clinging to my back.

  I tell myself to grab a handful of the pills. I make myself do it, beginning to swallow them down one at a time—counting out loud—starting with one—moving on to two—then three.

  My eyes are closed and open.

  I throw my head back, dizzy with pain as it collides with the bathroom wall.

  I try to remember things.

  I try to remember Zelda’s face.

  I try to remember my father.

  I remember his face.

  I remember his brown-skinned hands pressing softly against my back. I remember the sound of his voice. I remember his features contorted in helpless crying. I remember seeing him weak and disoriented after the hemorrhage in his brain nearly killed him just a few years ago. I remember he is alive now. I remember he had a second chance.

  And then I remember my little brother and sister. I remember the games we played and the stories we read together. I suddenly want to know so badly how they have changed over these last years. I want to know what they are like, what kind of people they are growing into. Fuck, man, if I could just take it all back. I can’t build my life back up again, man, I just can’t. I can’t quit drinking. I can’t make it better. I mean, hell, I just relapsed on fucking coke again. I am garbage. And the trash goes in the motherfucking trash can.

  That actually gets a laugh out of me.

  I look at the sleeping pills in my hand.

  And then, suddenly, I have another idea. And this idea, well, it might actually work.

  Maybe… maybe I can just sleep. I mean, maybe I can just lock myself in here and watch movies and sleep and, uh, yeah, it’ll suck, but I think I might be able to do it. Sue Ellen will be supportive. And I’ll stop drinking. And I’ll finish my book. And maybe I’ll even send my dad an e-mail and see if he might wanna start talking to me again.

  My legs move beneath me.

  I stand, putting the pills carefully back in their container. And then I walk, staggering, to the different hiding places around the house, gathering the bottles, emptying them one by one into the sink.

  A blackness starts to close in at the corners of my eyes. The sleeping pills must be taking effect. My body slumps beneath the weight of the blackness coming down.

  I make my way to the bed, stripping down to my underwear, my head filling with static—images cutting in and out.

  I turn on the TV.

  The sounds are all muffled and droning monotone—unintelligible—slowed to nearly stopping.

  I nod and jerk awake.

  I nod again.

  The sleep presses in on me from every side.

  I jerk awake.

  Fuck.

  I have to just let go.

  I have to let go, but it’s so hard.

  My eyes close.

  The sounds are a blur of color bars.

  I have to let go.

  I have to.

  Let go.

  Let go.

  The sounds fade to nothing.

  And I sleep.

  Ch.26

  Amazingly, well, it actually kinda worked.

  For five days I slept and was sick and the cravings got so bad, but I didn’t leave the apartment. I mean, hell, I barely left the bed. Sue Ellen was patient and brought me simple foods, and I slept and was sick and watched probably well over fifty different movies and then, finally, I don’t know, I started to feel all right.

  The cravings let up a good bit, and my body got stronger, and now, I mean, I’m all right—at least, relatively speaking. Hell, I’ve even started writing again, and I’d say I’ve got a pretty solid draft about ready to send out to my editor. That is, I figured out some sort of ending.

  So, uh, yeah, things are better. And all I can really say about that is, well, I guess that’s the cool thing about life, right? I mean, things change. One way or another, things always fucking change.

  Unless I get dead.

  If I get dead, then nothing’ll ever change again. And there’s this
sort of numbness in me when I think about how close I came. ’Cause things really have changed. And they always do. I just wish I could remember that shit when the bad times come, you know? Hell, from now on I should just start locking myself in my room whenever I get too squirrelly. It’s not a bad idea.

  But, anyway, besides all that shit, I finally wrote an e-mail to my dad yesterday, and it was crazy ’cause when he responded, he didn’t even sound angry at all. If anything, he just seemed grateful to hear from me. All this time I’d been thinking he was pretty much over having anything to do with me, and then, the first time I reach out to him, he writes me back, like, two seconds later saying he’d love to talk. We even set a time: tomorrow morning at eleven for me and eight for him. Honestly, I’m kinda dreading it. I mean, we’re starting back at nothing. He doesn’t trust me. My stepmom doesn’t trust me. My little brother and sister don’t trust me. It seems impossible to even try ’n’ start building that shit back. Shame is like a whiplash drawing away blood and long strips of skin from my back and shoulders. The air is honed like a knifepoint. But it’s not enough to stop me anymore. Fuck, man, I quit drinking on my own. I didn’t need to go to rehab. I didn’t need to lose everything again. I was able to get sober before shit got too bad this time. And I guess that’s gotta be progress.

  So I’ll talk to my dad.

  It’s scary as hell, but I’m gonna do it.

  At least, that’s the plan.

  I mean, he’s calling tomorrow, so we’ll see.

  Otherwise, I’ve just been focusing on writing and watching movies—maybe going out for a coffee. I quit my job at Dorothy’s, and I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do now. The boredom feels almost palpable. The time passes slowly. The sun sits motionless in the autumn sky. I am very lonely. I am all alone. But I can’t go hang out with anybody ’cause I’m too afraid of drinking again. So I just sit with the loneliness. I search for small distractions. I wait for things to get better—whatever that even means.

  But today, uh, I’m not really sure what to do or where to go. I drop off Sue Ellen at work, and it’s a little after ten, so I decide to drive up to this coffee shop next to the dog park so I can maybe read a little. I got this book We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. Actually, I just picked it up ’cause I liked the cover and what I read on the back when I was at the downtown library. Seriously, it’s like one of the most incredible books I’ve ever read. The writing is so haunting and beautiful—so strange and dark. I’ve almost finished the whole thing, and it’s only been two days.