I grab his jeans, shaking his key out of the pockets. I find my house key and start to take it off the hook.
“What are you doing?” he groans.
“Look at you! You’re wasted, your eyes are rimmed! You’ve probably snorted enough coke to kill Pablo Escobar. Before you know it, you’ll be shooting that shit.”
He stands up quickly, or as quickly as he can manage, he puffs his chest out, challenging me.
“I’m not a needle junkie, Malakai.”
“And being a coke fiend is better? Get your shit together, Emerson, or I’m kicking you the fuck out. You’re not risking both of our careers because you can’t get your head out of your fucking ass,” I seethe with a harshness in my tone that wasn’t entirely meant for him.
I’d decided to let him move in when my house was finished. His apartment was under construction and I had the room. Maybe I wanted to keep an eye on him because from the moment I met him I knew he was on something.
Addicts have the same look in their eye.
It’s called craving.
Similar to a starved rabid animal.
I’d caught him a year ago at Valor and Bishop’s engagement party taking a bump off the bathroom sink.
I’d known he was on something long before, knew he had a drinking problem, but this was the first time I’d caught him red-handed. Anyone who knew me knew my standing on drugs. I made him flush it, and after that, we’d been close.
Close as you could get to someone like me.
As much as people want to think the league screens regularly, they don’t. Unless given a reason to and Emerson was too good of a player to lose over a positive drug test.
So they let him slowly kill himself for a game.
Kind of sick, isn’t it?
“I want to be better than this, Kai. I swear,” he says, sighing.
The bags underneath his eyes make his body look sunken, like a skeleton. The greyish green tint to his irises seems duller. He was committing a slow suicide and there wasn’t anything I or anyone else could do for him.
I poke his chest with my pointer and middle fingers, hard.
“Then be better, if you don’t you’ll be on the street, do you understand? Cut it out on the drugging and watch the drinking.”
Tough love.
Sometimes that was the only thing that could save them.
“I’m going to get help, I swear.” He nods, sinking back onto the couch, handing me the bottle of liquor.
I nod, not believing him. I believed his actions, but I still couldn’t turn my back on him. Because in Emerson I see the person I could’ve become. Had I not chosen to leave with Nina, I would’ve been him. A slave to a bottle or a needle.
Maybe all he needed was someone to believe in him too.
I’m going to get help.
Things will be better, Kai.
My boy, I’ll be better for you.
I don’t even make it into my kitchen before I hear his snore from the couch, knocked out cold.
I empty the clear vodka down the sink. The strength of the alcohol burns my nose hairs. You’d think he was drinking nail polish remover.
Cerberus walks in after me, nudging my thigh. I look down at him, bringing my hand to his head to pet him, as I look into the living room at the sleeping body.
It seemed there was something about me that attracted lost souls.
Just like with Cerberus, I left him sleeping on my bed and never took him back to the pound.
I left Emerson’s key on the chain.
Three
Messy Hair, Messy Heart
Charlotte
I smash the snooze button on my clock, wanting to rest my eyes for a few more minutes. I was in the middle of a very graphic dream about myself and Henry Cavill. The only man on planet earth I’d be willing to do anything for. That jaw could split me in half.
My show at The Cave ran late which meant I didn’t get home until two in the morning, and because I needed to finish homework, I didn’t get to bed until five.
Just a few more minutes, I tell myself. My eyes are growing heavy once again, the dimple in Henry’s cheek is becoming visible in my mind. I wiggle my toes at the end of my bed, feeling my body sink into my mattress as the mistress of sleep seduces me once again.
Until a dreadful sound floats into my apartment. The trash truck is obnoxiously loud at this early hour. My eyes snap open from fear.
The evil truck runs at 7:30 and I have an 8 a.m. class.
Such a doughhead, Charlotte.
I all but somersault out of my bed, falling toward the window. My big toe smacks into the table next to my bed sending a sharp pain up my foot.
“Fucking eh!” I curse as I stumble toward the window, wincing at the throbbing in my toe.
I heave the glass open, sticking my hand out into the open air, moving my arm in a wave motion to feel the temperature. I grab at it like I can feel it beneath my palm. I truly believe my arm is the most accurate thermometer in the world.
Autumn has officially arrived. It’s sunny, with a cool breeze that brushes your cheeks giving that pink hue to your skin. Beanies, long sleeves, sweaters and hoodies are finally acceptable to wear out in public.
Which if I’m being honest, it could be ninety-seven degrees outside, and I’d still be wearing a hoodie.
“Lottie dottie! How are you, my dear?”
Pearl, the elderly woman above me shouts. I look up through the fire escape to see her head popped out, along with her tabby cat, Fitz. His head tilts with her, and I have to remind myself not to say something about how absurdly similar they look.
“I'm good, Pearl, just running a bit late, tea and reading after class?” I call back.
She nods with a thumbs up, continuing to water her plants. One of which is a plant called Senecio rowleyanus, or string of pearls which I find very punny.
Pearl is what I like to call a traveling physic. Everywhere she goes there is a pack of tarot cards in her purse, maybe a few crystals, possibly a sprig of rosemary, and if you look deep enough, homemade cinnamon candy without the wrapper.
I feed her cat when she goes to scrabble matches, and she makes me lavender tea that is to die for.
I move back inside my tiny studio apartment, looking at the mess of clothes on the floor and on my bed. Using my superhuman power of organized disorganization I toss together an outfit that doesn’t smell bad.
I grab a black cardigan and a grey beanie because I am a firm believer that it makes me look a little more put together. It also hides my band t-shirt and my very, very, pompous professors like to complain about my musical taste. I can’t help they listen to Beethoven and I would much rather head-bang to Blink 182.
And it covers my tattoos. The scattered designs of black and grey artwork didn’t scream professional, but there was something so appealing about being tattooed. From the moth on my shin, to the winding snake and dagger on my left forearm, all the way to the mandala on my right shoulder blade and everything in between.
They didn’t make sense, they were chaotic all over the place with small gaps of skin in between, but that worked for me.
I dash to the bathroom, ruffling my blue hair that desperately needs to be brushed through, but I don’t have time to deal with the frizz after I do. There is a blank sticky note taped to my mirror. I look around the bathroom spotting a sharpie with no cap on it.