Читать книгу JUNKIE II - Shawnda Christiansen - Страница 11

The hospital hallway was bustling with nurses, doctors, Christmas carolers and a small child navigating a hot wheel’s truck, as he wove it in and out of foot traffic. Nobody noticed as I casually pushed a broom down the hallway, face concealed by the bill of Sonny’s baseball cap.

What is a person’s true north? For me, I’d been running and gunning for so long I had a really hard time remembering. I enjoyed some drugs from time to time; I even enjoyed a little mainlining from time to time, but with the life that I lived, who could blame me? I am not an addict. I am not a junkie.

Nobody can ever compare me to the shit-stained bile that I worked tirelessly to clean up off my streets over the years. If a man needs a little reprieve now and again, but he can’t get away because of his thriving business, sometimes he’s gotta find another way to take a vacay. That’s the only reason I partook in the substances.

Right now, I could really use a little vacation time too. Thankfully, a distracted nurse manning the medication cart decided to sponsor my little vacation time, so I managed to swipe a whole pocketful of Percocet on my way out.

I found an unlocked truck, old enough to hotwire, and left the hospital in the rearview mirror.

I’ve always had an “oh shit” plan, the plan B for when plan A goes to hell in a hand basket, and this seemed to be hell in a hand basket territory. Luckily, I cut off ties with all family years ago, so all I needed to do was get to my old cabin, get my go-bag and hit the damn road.

I hadn’t been to my cabin in years. I got inside, got my bag and sat down in my old recliner for a minute to go through all of my tools.

“It should have everything needed for survival. Water, cash, a back- up phone, non-perishable food, a change of clothing, and a blanket,” Dad said, as he showed me the bag he liked to keep in the trunk of his patrol car.

I soaked up everything he told me like a sponge. “When are we going inside the shooting range?” I asked.

He laughed at me as he grabbed the weapons and closed the trunk of his patrol car. “Right now.”

I followed him inside. I loved these moments.

“One of the most important tools a police officer needs to possess is something you don’t have to reach for. It’s something you’re always be armed with; can you tell me what that is, Danny?”

“A gun?”

“A gun is something you have to reach for. What can you think of that’s always with you, no matter where you are, no matter when you need it?”

I shrugged. “Compassion,” he said. “Huh?” I said.

“The best weapon we have in life is compassion, empathy, the ability to walk a mile in another person’s shoes. I believe that with the right amount of those, we may never have to discharge a gun,” he said.

My survival bag was just like his except for a few extra perks: whiskey, dope, a new identity, and a few syringes. “It’s all about tools,” Dad said as he loaded his Glock 22. “This here Glock is an Austrian-made handgun that first hit the market in 1990.”

“Ooooooh,” I said, giving the Glock my rapt attention.

“This one right here, this is the Glock 19. It’s been around since 1988,” he said.

“Which one is your favorite?” I asked.

“I’d rather talk about your favorite tool,” he said.

My dad’s voice haunted me as it drifted away, back into the closet, where a skeleton should stay.

“I suppose that’s a rhetorical question?” I asked as I slid the needle into my arm.

The blood rushed into the barrel of the syringe like a crimson tidal wave, mixing with the Jack Daniels and turning black, along with the rest of the world, racing by like a subway in a long dark tunnel.

Light rips through the darkness in flashes with memories of my Emily, sitting by the creek.

She’s afraid to go in.

She’s holding my hand as we stand at the doorway to a funeral home. I’m afraid to go in.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you know how to swim?” Emily said as she rips away.

She rips away from me.

“HELP!” I scream as I try to hold onto her.

The tunnel slows down, finally. Everything is calm, as we softly land at the hospital. It is THE day. The day to end ALL days.

Emily is in labor. The room turns red.

I open my eyes, and I am in a grassy meadow, surrounded by fireflies. Frustration does not even begin to capture this moment. This feeling.

Powerlessly careening through my life. I needed to be in control.

I needed power.

I needed to end it all. A baby cooed.

“You gonna take care of that, son?” said my dad, sitting next to me in the meadow.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why not?” he said.

“You never taught me how to swim,” I said. “You seem to be doing all right to me,” he said.

A door opened, sending rays of the sun into my face, then overshad- owed by red, a blinding red, as if a super red comet had just come and placed a filter over the ozone layer.

I was standing over an empty crib.

I shrugged my shoulders, and walked back to my recliner. I picked up my gun.

I put the barrel up against my temple and pulled the trigger.

“My favorite gun is the revolver; can I shoot the revolver today, Dad?” I said.

“I don’t know, Danny; that’s a man’s gun,” he said. “Come on.” I pouted at him with my eyes.

“First you gotta WAKE UP!” He turned and slapped me so hard I fell down and woke up.

“Damn,” I said to myself as I rubbed my face. That recurring nightmare had bitch-slapped me again. There was no baby anymore. There was no anything anymore. My life was just a big pile of dust.

I had failed.

I failed to give Emily the world.

I failed to protect Penelope, the one thing that mattered most to both of us.

I was a failure as a Sheriff. I was a failure to the world.

I was the stinking pile of shit junkie that I had despised for so long. There was only one thing left to do now, the one thing I knew I was still good at.

It was time to end it all.