“I can’t spend my life not knowing whether you’re really happy or whether you’re merely pretending to be,” Elle continued. “Am I supposed to lock up all the valuables every night before I go to bed?” She pulled her diamond ring off her finger and set it on the bedside table.
“Elle, please…you’re all I’ve got. I can’t live without you,” I said pleadingly.
“I’ll send your things to your parents’ house.” She stiffened her chin, trying to be strong.
But through her hard exterior, I could see the raw pain in her eyes, and I felt like a piece of shit. All I’d ever done was bring her heartache, and it was time for me to man-up and let her go.
“I don’t blame you, baby. You’re a good woman. Smart. Beautiful. And you definitely deserve a better man than me,” I admitted.
“Oh, Malik, what happened to us?” She sat on the bed and started weeping. I held her in my arms and fought to hold back tears of my own.
After a few moments, she pulled away, gathered herself, and wiped her eyes. “Goodbye, Malik. I honestly hope and pray that you find the strength to get your life together.”
“I’m going to try my best,” I said, swallowing down a big lump of pain and remorse.
CHAPTER 2
My parents allowed me to move back home. Being back in my old bedroom was humbling, and seeing the hurt in my mother’s eyes was like taking a knife to the gut. She’d been so proud of the progress I’d made, and I knew it was hard for her to see me at such a low point…once again.
My dad was enraged over my relapse. He could barely look at me without mumbling under his breath or banging a fist on a table or countertop. My parents, Ruth Ann and Winston Copeland, had worked hard and had sacrificed to put me through college. They felt a huge source of pride in that their sacrifices had spared me from the burden of student debt.
But here I was…a full-grown, educated man, back under my parents’ roof. My life was so depressing that I quickly started getting high again. In order to pay for my drugs, I resorted to stealing items that my parents wouldn’t miss. Items such as jewelry my mom only wore on special occasions, emerald cuff links that my grandfather had passed down to my dad, and other family heirlooms that my parents valued. I rationalized that the trinkets would one day be passed down to me, anyway, so who was I hurting?
After a month, I noticed that the tension between my mother and father was growing increasingly worse. I could hear their muffled arguments on the other side of their closed bedroom door.
From what I could discern, they were arguing about me. My dad wanted to use tough love to get through to me. He said that kicking me out of the house would teach me that there were consequences for my actions, but my mother felt that I needed family support more than ever.
My dad was right. At thirty-one years old, I had no business being the cause of the strife within their marriage, and there was no telling when I would graduate from stealing small items to stealing TVs and computers. To spare them from the pain of my addiction, I packed a few things while they were at work. I left my mom a note, telling her I’d be in touch after I got situated.
With nowhere to go and no money to my name, my only recourse was to pawn Elle’s engagement ring. Believing that Elle and I would one day get back together, I’d been using every ounce of my willpower to hold on to her ring. But I needed money badly—not only for drugs, but I also needed somewhere to live.
I went to a pawn shop and I could see the delight in the clerk’s eyes when I handed over the two-and-a-half-carat ring. He didn’t expect me to retrieve the expensive ring in thirty days, but I vowed to myself that come hell or high water, I’d get Elle’s ring back.
The moment I tucked the money and the receipt inside my pocket, I literally bumped into a tall, willowy chick with windblown hair. She whizzed into the pawn shop like a tornado, carrying a dusty-looking table lamp in her arms as she dashed toward the counter.
Feeling shitty about pawning Elle’s ring, I was in a hurry to get out of there, and the chick with the lamp was in a hurry to pawn her lamp. Due to our haste and our combined frenetic energy, we collided into each other. The lamp tumbled from her arms, and when it crashed to the floor, the glass shade shattered.
“Goddamit, motherfucker! Look what you did,” she shrieked. “This is a handmade vintage lamp that’s been in my family for generations. It’s worth a fortune. A fucking fortune!”
I bent down, trying to salvage the remnants of the broken lamp, picking up the colorful shards of glass. I noticed the woman was teary-eyed and shaking, and I felt bad for her. Even though the accident wasn’t totally my fault, I couldn’t help feeling a degree of responsibility for the mishap.
When the clerk came from behind the counter to inspect the damaged lamp, he smirked. “There’s nothing vintage about this lamp. It’s dusty from sitting around, but it’s not an antique, nor is it handmade. It looks like it came from Target or Walmart, circa nineteen ninety-four,” he quipped.
“Screw you, smartass,” she fumed at the clerk. Then she kicked the lamp in anger before storming toward the door.
It didn’t require much scrutiny for me to realize she was a junkie. It takes one to know one.
One look at her and it was clear that she was nothing but trouble. I should have lingered inside the pawnshop for a bit longer to avoid further contact with her. But instead of listening to my better judgment, I exited the store right behind her.
She turned around and stared at me. Despite my polished appearance, she quickly sized me up as drug abuser, also. She was also aware that I’d made a transaction and my pocket was full of cash.
Judging by her jerky movements and the look of desperation in her eyes, it was apparent that she was going through withdrawals and was too dope sick to bother with girly flirtatiousness. She viewed me as a means to feed her addiction, and she got right to the point.
“What are you about to get into? Wanna party with me?” She delivered her inquiry with a serious expression and didn’t offer a flicker of a smile.
My plan had been to rent a room, get settled in, and then get high. I also intended to start making the rounds to various job fairs around the city as soon as I took the time to put together a new resume. I was sure I could do drugs and maintain a job as long as I kept to myself and didn’t get involved with other addicts—especially female addicts. I tended to spiral down to the gutter whenever I combined drugs and sex.
But I was lonely, disillusioned, and feeling hopeless—a combination of emotions that I didn’t want to feel. Suddenly, I yearned for the company of a woman along with the numbing effect of heroin.
I took a moment to appraise the young woman. She was around five-four and had a delicate build that made her seem fragile. She had smooth, cocoa-colored skin, dark moody eyes, and plump lips that added to her quiet sex appeal. Even though her hair was messy and her mascara was smeared, she was still pretty. Drugs hadn’t robbed her of her beauty, yet. But it would only be a matter of time.
Hanging out with homegirl was risky and no doubt she’d entice me to spend more money than I wanted to, but throwing caution to the wind, I agreed to party with her.
She told me her name was Kaloni. Aside from asking if I’d buy her a gram of heroin, she didn’t say much else. She drove a beat-up Volkswagen Jetta that was cluttered with everything from clothes to bags of dog food.
Apparently the car was home to her and a little brown Chihuahua that sat in the front seat, yapping away. The dog did not look well cared for. It wore a raggedy rhinestone collar with several missing stones. With mangy fur and cloudy, bulging eyes, it was clear that the little dog was no young pup. It was old and mean, and probably pissed off at having to depend on an irresponsible addict for its care and well-being.
Upset by my presence, the dog continued to bark even after Kaloni put it on her lap.
“Don’t be jealous, Paris Hilton,” Kaloni cooed as she petted her dog.
I hope I don’t pick up any of Paris Hilton’s flea
s, I thought as I strapped on the seatbelt.
We copped from a dealer she knew who lived near Kensington and Allegheny Avenues. With money to burn, I bought a gram for Kaloni and a gram for myself. Then, we drove to a motel. I would have preferred if she’d left noisy Paris Hilton in the car, but I didn’t bother to protest when she brought her into the room with us.
There were two twin beds and I took my bag of powder and camped out on the bed closest to the door. I immediately went to work, using the screen of my phone as a base and then breaking up the rock and making lines with the plastic keycard that the motel clerk had given me.
I kept an eye on Kaloni as she sat on the other bed. Her works consisted of a syringe, a lighter, a spoon, and a cord to tighten around her arm. She gave herself a shot, and I didn’t snort one line until I was sure she was okay and hadn’t overdosed.
Her head tipped forward as she began nodding, and when she didn’t pass out or go into convulsions, I felt she was in the clear and it was okay for me to get high.
“This is some good dope,” I muttered as I was hit with a rush of euphoria. In a matter of moments, I was free of all problems and was drifting on cloud nine.
Paris Hilton jumped on my bed and started growling at me. High as a kite and feeling complete bliss and utter contentment, I didn’t feel the least bit annoyed. With my eyes half closed, I reached out and stroked her mangy coat. She calmed down and stopped barking, and I continued petting her as if she were my very own beloved pet.
After we both came down a little from our high, we took the dog for a walk in a wooded area near the motel. With drugs still in our systems, it wasn’t a brisk walk. Kaloni and I ambled along slowly.
I took a seat on the ground, resting my back against a tree trunk. Kaloni sat next to me.
“Your pooch seems happy being in an open area,” I commented as the dog scampered.
“Yeah, she’s having a good time.” A smile blossomed on Kaloni’s face for the first time since I’d met her. Her smile put a gleam in her eyes, and it struck me that she was even prettier than I’d thought.
“Sometimes I take Paris Hilton to the park, but for the most part, she’s stuck in the car all day,” she commented.
Although her words came out drowsily, she seemed to be in a talkative mood. I would have preferred to sit quietly and enjoy the feeling of the sun shining down on me, but I didn’t want to be rude.
“It’s a shame that the dog can’t get out more,” I muttered, not really giving a damn about her dog. I was beginning to feel antsy as my mind wandered to the pebble-sized piece of heroin that was inside my jacket pocket. I reached inside my pocket and fondled it comfortingly.
“My dream is to buy a home in a rural area with lots of acres surrounding it. I want to provide a safe haven and a good environment for as many neglected animals as possible.” Kaloni scratched her arm and spoke in a slurred voice as she communicated her ideal life.
“Any idea how you’ll fund your altruistic endeavor?” Sarcasm colored my words, but she didn’t seem to pick up on it. I noticed that Kaloni was less hostile than she’d been when we rammed into each other at the pawnshop. Being under the influence had removed the chip from her shoulder, and I preferred this softer and gentler version of her.
“I make good money on my job,” she confided.
“Oh, yeah? What do you do for a living?” I inquired, although I doubted if she had a job.
“I dance at a club.”
“You strip?” I was careful not to sound judgmental, but I wanted her to be more specific.
She nodded. “The pay is amazing. But I’m broke because I’ve been on suspension for a couple of months.”
I raised my brows. That’s a long time for a suspension. “Are you sure you still have a job? When is the suspension over?”
“I have another month to go. I got suspended for ninety days.”
“That’s a long-ass suspension.”
“My boss wanted me to have enough time to get clean.”
“Are you gonna make an effort?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to focus on getting clean when shit is falling apart all around you.”
“Can’t you work at another club?”
“No. Word is out that I’m unreliable, and I’m pretty much blackballed at all the clubs in the city.”
“You could move to another city,” I suggested.
She made a sour face and shook her head. “I can’t move. I have a relationship with several dealers here in Philly.”
“I feel you,” I said.
As fucked up as my own life was, and in light of the fact that I’d also been fired over drug use, I had no business whatsoever offering advice to Kaloni or anyone else. But I was merely making small talk until I got back to the motel room and could block out my problems by snorting more lines.
“Getting suspended from work fucked up my life worse than it already was,” she explained.
I didn’t want to encourage her to keep talking, so I didn’t comment. She was being annoyingly talkative, and I wanted her to revert back to her quiet, hostile persona.
“With no steady income, I got evicted from my place. Making matters worse, my boyfriend, Donnie, got locked up for shoplifting dog food for Paris Hilton. With his outstanding warrants, he’s looking at twenty months.” She dropped her head woefully. “I miss him so much; he was my soul mate. Without him to keep me straight, I’ve been making the worst choices ever, and I feel so alone.”
I rubbed her shoulder consolingly.
“I racked up a big tab with one of my dealers. I’ve been ducking the dude for weeks, and it’s only a matter of time before he catches up with me. If only I could get my job back, I could pay him the money I owe.”
It was obvious that she wasn’t going to shut up, so I reluctantly engaged in the discussion. “What did you do to get suspended from the strip club, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I got caught shooting up in the bathroom. I should have gone straight to rehab like I promised, but I couldn’t leave Paris Hilton alone.”
I was growing bored listening to Kaloni’s long list of problems. Shit, I had my own issues. “You could have put her in a kennel,” I said, allowing myself to be lured back into a conversation that I wasn’t interested in.
“I planned to put her in a kennel, but after Donnie got locked up, I sort of lost my way. I wasn’t thinking straight when I ran through my money before I could get my dog situated in a decent place.” Her voice cracked a little, revealing that she was genuinely remorseful for not making wiser money decisions.
I could completely relate to recklessly blowing through money, and I squeezed her arm in understanding. She looked at me and I could see the pain in her eyes. In that moment, something clicked between us and we held each other in a long gaze. It wasn’t about lust or anything sexual. It was about recognizing ourselves as two lost souls. Two human beings who were slaves to a drug that would eventually cause our demise if we didn’t get help and kick it for good.
“Don’t worry, we’ll figure this shit out together. After we get high one last time, maybe we should both think about checking into a rehab facility,” I said with a weak smile.
“Yeah, something has to change because I’m so tired of living like this.” She sighed and then rested her head on my shoulder. Being an addict was all-consuming and draining, and it was obvious that she was exhausted.
We sat in silence for a while. After a few moments, she stood up and called for Paris Hilton, and the dog excitedly ran to her and leapt into her arms.
Back in the motel room, we got high again. Later, we ordered pizza but barely touched it. After going through the motions of watching TV, we went to bed. At some point during the night, Kaloni got out of her bed and crawled into mine.
We cuddled at first and then we fucked. She was open-minded and did freaky things that Elle would have never dreamed of doing, nor would I have expected her to. Sex with Kaloni was angry and rough, yet awesome. However, she
wasn’t the person that I wanted or needed. Despite the sexual chemistry between us, I found myself missing Elle terribly, and the moment I climaxed, I felt utterly hopeless and all alone.
Until that moment, I hadn’t allowed myself to deal with losing Elle, and the pain that I’d been keeping at bay, tore through me with razor-sharpness and was unrelenting.
CHAPTER 3
In the morning the first thing I reached for was my drugs. Still lying down with my eyes closed, I blindly groped the top of the nightstand. Finding nothing, my eyes popped open and I sat upright. I shot an accusing look over at Kaloni’s bed, which was empty.
Assuming she was in the bathroom, I angrily yelled her name. The response was deafening silence. When it occurred to me that Paris Hilton wasn’t yapping and barking as she usually did, I became alarmed and jumped out of bed to check my pants pockets. To my horror, my pockets were empty. Every dollar of my money was gone.
Maybe she took the dog for a walk, I reasoned, and then raced to the window and looked out. I’d hoped to see her hooptie sitting in the parking spot in front of our room, but of course it wasn’t.
That bitch! I should have known better than to trust a junkie, and I was pissed with myself for letting my guard down. Infuriated, I punched a wall and put a dent in it.
I gingerly ran my fingertips over my scraped-up knuckles and then flopped down on the bed in disgust. I glanced at the time and scowled. Only an hour and a half until check-out time.
What the hell am I going to do? I couldn’t go crawling back to my parents. Over the past few years, I’d caused them enough grief to last a lifetime, and they deserved to live peacefully without having to worry about their adult son.
Like anyone else, I’d made my fair share of mistakes, but the biggest mistake of my life was my decision to undergo back surgery after suffering a ruptured disc in a car accident. That first failed surgery led to my having to go under the knife a second time, and in order to deal with the constant headaches and chronic back pain, I was prescribed OxyContin. A dependency on pain medication led to my current circumstances.
Flesh and Blood Page 2
