Goodbye, Wagon
I am a champion pacer.
I cannot stay still. I hate laying down, unless it’s for a damn good reason. And if given the choice, I’d eat my dinner, breakfast, or lunch standing up, even in public, though I restrain myself. My room back at home used to have a track worn clean down the middle of the floor from my endless agonizing. My mom replaced the carpet three times, but it’d always come back.
I was doing my best pacing of my life right now, but I didn’t have much room. The small examination room in Dr. Triche’s office was not made for people who have lots of nervous ricocheting to do. I chewed on my necklace and made myself stop and take a deep breath, but it didn’t work. Where the hell was the doctor?
Just as I was about to grab my bag and hurry out, Dr. Triche opened the door and swept inside. He didn’t even mess with pleasantries, which I have no time for, anyway.
“Alright, your scan came back. Let’s see what it says.” He sat down, shook his glasses out by one hand, pushed them on, and opened my folder. I stood near him, nervously tapping my foot.
“Okay…blah blah blah, high blood pressure, blah blah…oh. Well.” Dr. Triche straightened up, swallowing hard. My heart trickled into my shoes. “What? What does it say?”
He turned to me with an expression that was horrifyingly kind. “Sit down, Nyx.” I shook my head.
“I’m good standing up. Just tell me!”
Dr. Triche sighed, took off his glasses, and reached for my hand.
“You have alcoholic cirrhosis. Basically, your liver’s tissue is being replaced by scar tissue. It’s not something you’re going to get rid of, Nyx. It will kill you unless you stop drinking.”
I sat down. Not on a chair. Not on the examination table. I sat on the floor. Hard.
“That’s impossible. I’m twenty four. Old men in their seventies get this shit, not me.” It was like someone had shot my throat full of Novacaine-it was that hard to speak.
Dr. Triche sighed. “You have it. And you’re right-you’re very young to have this disease. Way too young.”
The doctor suddenly pushed back his chair and sat on the floor with me, even though he was in a spotless lab coat and he was nearing almost sixty years old. He once again took my hand and looked at me, gravely.
“Nyx, do you think you could stop drinking?”
“Who said I was drinking?” I retorted, but the words didn’t come out as forceful as I would have hoped.
He fixed me with a steady gaze. “Are you?”
I was about to answer, but then…
“Go! Go! Go! Go!” Voices were screaming all around me as I licked my hand, tossed down the liquor, bit into a lemon, slammed the shot glass down. Across from me, Chris repeated my actions, a few seconds too late.
“Your girl’s going to beat you, Kirkpatrick!” Somebody called, but I didn’t know or care who it was. The world was a carousel of cheering and banging and faces, and they all blurred together in a dizzying soup. Before I had to ask, I had another full shot in one hand and a fresh lemon in the other. Chris’s eyes were laughing and I felt someone pour salt on my hand, but I didn’t stop to smile back at him. I closed my eyes.
The cicadas were mercifully gone, but the mud, the smell, the hand-they were all present. The world shuddered in my vision and I didn’t stop, I didn’t think, I licked the salt, took the shot, ate the lemon. Liver disease. Salt, shot, lemon, liver disease. They kept coming and coming, and everything kept getting fuzzier, but I was winning. Chris was two shots behind me and I could feel hands on my back, slapping me in encouragement, someone screeching, “You’re a pussy, Chris!”
And then I held out my hand for another shot, but Chris was suddenly next to me. “No more for her, you guys.” His brown eyes got closer and closer and more and more concerned until they filled the world.
“Babe, are you alright? Nyx? Babe?”
But I was already gone.
I looked at the Doctor, straight in the eye.
“No. I’m not drinking.”
**********************************************************
There was a time I would follow wind into a storm.
And all I wanted was for someone to keep me warm.
But now I'm torn by my tolerance.
I fight with my head.
I don't need to pollinate a flower that's dead.
And everyone I've built up, I watched wilt.
And everyone that has built me is killin' me.
And as much as I love her.
Neither one of us should suffer.
So I'ma glue both the wings back on and watch her flutter.
Go fly butterfly.
Don't cry, shut your eyes.
Gonna watch each other die.
Before we give it another try.
Hover little hummingbird.
Dart through the sky.
I've been under the thumb.
It's no wonder I'm still shy.
Hunger, onward, with my desires.
Learned the hard way not to play with fire.
From a comfortable distance, I'll admire.
Because I got to take a break.
I'm exhausted, I'm tired.
Hunger, onward, with my desires.
Learned the hard way not to play with fire.
From a comfortable distance, I'll admire.
Because I got to take a break.
I'm exhausted, I'm tired.
Wooden ships, on the water.
Rescue me.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Denial. It's never just a river in Egypt.
Chapter End Notes:
"Wooden Ships" by Atmosphere featuring PNS
Story Tags: drugssex darkc chris
