I looked at my muddled reflection in my bathroom mirror. My skin was an unnatural pale and my light brown hair shaded my icy blue eyes, dull and sunken from the drug. The hollows of my cheeks had carved themselves deeply into my face and a light sheen of sweat covered my forehead, giving me a sickly look. I shuttered as I looked down at the needle lying on the counter next to me. I’d already tied the rubber tourniquet around the upper part of my left arm. One more time wouldn’t hurt. Just... once more. To stop the pain. I grabbed the syringe, pushed the needle into my vein and pressed down the plunge, releasing the drug into my bloodstream. I pulled the needle out of my arm and immediately started to feel the effects. I let out a sharp breath as I gripped the counter tightly. My legs gave out and I shifted my body so my back was leaning on the cabinet under the sink. Bit by bit, I started to sink into a blissfully numb euphoria. The pain I felt melted away into a sea of grey and everything became a blurry haze. I wished this was the way it would stay. There wasn’t anything here that could hurt. It was peaceful. I could let go of everything. Let go of everything...
I awoke to the blaring sound of my home phone ringing in my ear. The sound caused an instant headache and I struggled to stand. I walked slowly over to my bedroom where my phone kept screaming. I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the sun that streamed through the window.
“Hello?” I asked in a graveled voice as I picked up the phone.
“Lucian?” my employer, Ron Whittaker asked, sounding more like shouting, over the phone.
“Yeah. You don’t need to yell, Boss.” I sat on my bed and stared out the window, taking in the New York skyline then watching the people scurrying down below. They all seemed so carefree, going about their daily lives free of any strife. Of course I knew it wasn’t true, but it seemed that way from up here; couples laughing and smiling, mothers pushing strollers and fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders. Even the people walking alone seemed to be to have a better disposition than I did.
“I’m not yelling,” Whittaker responded gruffly.
“Coulda’ fooled me,” I grumbled into the receiver.
“Lucian, are you hung over? Eh, never mind. I called to tell you that you have a crime scene to visit tomorrow in San Francisco. I already ordered and confirmed your airplane ticket and hotel reservation. The plane leaves at ten in the morning today and arrives in San Francisco International Airport at four thirty. Get to LaGuardia Airport and go to gate three. On your way, stop by to get your ticket and information.”
“Okay. I’ll get ready. Be there in a few.” I hung up the phone and put a few clothes into a carry-on bag then put all of the papers I needed into my shoulder bag. Continuing to get ready, I walked into the bathroom but stopped when I saw the needle and heroin on the counter. I couldn’t take it. I knew I couldn’t take it. I grabbed the stuff off the counter, capped the needle and added them to the contents of my shoulder bag. I took a couple aspirin, cleaned myself up and left to get the things I needed from Whittaker.
I supposed it was strange that someone like me, a profiler for the FBI, would end up a heroin addict, but it was the only way I could deal with the pain anymore.
My best friend since elementary school, Kyle Preston, used to work with me on the team. Actually it was more accurate to say that he was like a brother to me. He was one of the best guys there. He wasn’t a profiler, like I was, but he did his fair share of the work.
We’d been instructed to go to a location where the prime suspect of our investigation was hiding; an old warehouse by the docks. When we went in, we didn’t even have time to announce ourselves before a spray of bullets flew in our direction. I felt a couple hit me, one in my knee, shattering my joint, and the other in my thigh. When I fell to the floor, I saw Kyle laying where he’d been standing. When I crawled over to him, the only thing I saw was the bullet wound in his forehead.
That was the biggest loss of my life. I dove into my work, and when that wasn’t enough to distract me, I started using. That was two years ago. A year later, my wife, Narelle, found out. She tried to help me get through it and quit, and she even thought I did for a while, but I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t want to keep feeling the pain. She found out and left me, saying I wasn’t married to her, I was married to my job and my drugs. That may have been true, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love her. When she left, I only started using more.
I pulled into the parking garage under the building then made my way to the elevator and up to Whittaker’s office. I picked up the package and started on my way to the airport. I dropped off my car at a storage parking lot near the airport. When I entered, I went through the baggage check and, just as I thought they would, they stopped me.
“Sir, what’s this in your bag?” one of the TSA employees asked me.
“I have diabetes. Do you need to see the card?” I responded quickly.
“Oh, no sir. Go right ahead.”
I gave him a smile and nodded and took my things from the tray and continued to the gate.
The wait and plane ride dragged, I was stuck sitting next to a man that snored, and I was thankful when we landed. The nine hour flight took a toll on me and I was starting to get a really unbearable craving for the haziness. I put my shoulder bag and suitcase on a chair and stretched my arms and legs. When I opened my eyes again, I saw some kid walking away with my shoulder bag.
“Hey! Get back here!” I yelled as I started to chase him. He looked back and when he saw me chasing after him, he started to run. ‘Great. Not even in San Francisco for a minute and I’m already mugged.’ “Stop running! I SAID GET BACK HERE!!”
“Then stop following me!” the kid yelled back.
“Give back my bag!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! This is mine!”
I cursed and started running faster. He ran out of the airport and down the street. I was already breathing hard; I didn’t have the energy for this anymore. He kept running for another three blocks then ducked into a hotel. I saw him run into an elevator with a girl.
“Hold the elevator!” I shouted, hoping the girl would listen, but the kid told her not to. “I could always catch another elevator.” I cursed under my breath again and sped up, managing to slip my hand between the door and the frame of the elevator, reopening the entrance. “Give me... my bag... you stupid brat!” I hissed through my teeth.
“You stole his bag?” the girl asked incredulously.
“This isn’t your bag! This isn’t his bag!” his voice rose in anger.
“I know what my bag looks like! Give it back or I’ll—”
“I’ll prove it’s not yours!” He started to open it.
“No! DON’T!” I lunged forward but it was too late. The contents spilled onto the floor of the elevator, my needle, tourniquet and the heroin included. I stood up straight then glared at the kid. “I’m with the FBI. It was evidence in an investigation. You just ruined it,” I lied hastily.
“You’re lying. You wouldn’t have wanted your bag that much if it were only evidence.”
“Then you’ve never met a cop.”
The kid scoffed. “You’re still lying. Wouldn’t it be in an air tight evidence bag if it was really evidence, to prevent contamination?”
I stalled and started picking up the papers and my drugs. When I’d collected everything, I gave the kid another stern look. “Next time someone tells you to stop because you have their bag, listen to them, kid. Now if you don’t mind, I have to bail my clothes out of jail. I have half a mind to make you pay for it.”
The kid sighed sharply. “Quit calling me kid. It’s Evan.”
“Oh! Oh! I’m Mabel!” the girl added with a smile.
“Are you expecting to see me again?” I grunted irritably then walked out of the building, back to the airport. Along the way, I was debating shooting up. I wondered how long I could keep this up before it killed me. Then again, what did I have to live for? My job? I wished Narelle hadn’t left. I needed her advice. More than that, I needed her compassion. Nothing seemed to matter if she wasn’t at my side.
I stopped and massaged my aching knee. That sprint hadn’t helped it at all. I walked back into the airport, slightly limping and went over to the nearest employee.
“I accidently forgot my suitcase here. Do you have a lost and found somewhere?”
“Yes, we do. I’ll take you to it,” she said politely then started to walk away.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I followed her to the lost and found and picked up my bag.
“I’ll need you to verify the contents.”
“Just some clothes, a toothbrush, small bottle of toothpaste and deodorant,” I answered simply.
She gave a sharp nod. “All right, sir. I’ll need you to sign here and there’s a fifty dollar fine for leaving it unattended.”
‘Figures.’ I pulled out my wallet and handed her a fifty dollar bill then left the airport, taking a taxi to my hotel.
That weekend’s business trip wasn’t in any way unusual, except the fact that I kept thinking about my personal problems. The day before I was to fly back to New York, I called Whittaker to update him on the case. When I hung up, I slumped forward, resting my elbows on my thighs, sweat rolling down the side of my face. I hadn’t used in two days. I thought I could stop myself, but my mind tried to rationalize it. I couldn’t get on the plane like this. They’d never allow me. I had to.
I looked at my bag longingly. I needed it. A sharp pain seared through my chest and I gripped it tightly, curling into a fetal position on the bed, trying to get the pain to fade. But it was no use. I needed the drug. I needed the peace it gave me.
I struggled to stand then hobbled over to my bag, quickly grabbing the needle and pre-prepared glass bottle. I stuck the needle through the rubber top and pulled up on the plunger. My hands were shaking too severely to see the marks on the side of the needle but I didn’t much care. I needed to stop the pain... I placed the tip of the syringe right above the skin of my arm, but I couldn’t bring myself to use it.
A new wave of shudders ran down my arms and the pain in my chest intensified. I doubled over in pain, dropping the bottle and needle, then and tried to ride it out. It seemed like time had slowed to an agonizing crawl. How was I going to get back to New York? The TSA employees would never let me on the plane being as sick as I was. If I could only get steady enough for it to pass as a cold...
I threw the needle across the room so forcefully, the plastic barrel shattered upon impact. I wasn’t going to let this hinder me anymore.
I didn’t get a good night’s sleep that night. The pain in my chest and knee were almost unbearable but I couldn’t let myself forget the reason. I didn’t want to live an empty existence anymore. No more scrounging and lies.
By the time it was morning, I was about as relaxed as a detoxing heroin addict could be. I wasn’t hazy and the pain had lessened, but I was shaky and jittery. At least I could be passed off as someone with a nasty cold, thankfully. I packed my belongings and tossed the drugs into the trash can, though not before doubting myself. No. I’d resisted for three days. I wasn’t going to let myself screw it up.
I checked out and left my hotel only to hail down a taxi to take me to the airport. Going through the security checkpoints was pretty easy, especially now that I didn’t have to lie about the contents of my bag. The plane ride home was uncomfortable, but there wasn’t really anything I could do about it.
After the plane landed and I picked up my car, I didn’t go back to my apartment. I drove straight to work and went to Whittaker’s office.
“Oh Lucian. You’re back already?” he asked surprised. “You look like crap. Are you all right?”
“You know... I think I’m going to be okay. Listen, I need to take an undetermined amount of time off and I need to know if I’ll still be hired afterward.”
He was quiet for a second, thinking it over then nodded. “You’ll still have your job.”
“Thank you sir,” I said as I gave him a slight nod. I turned and started to walk out of his office but he stopped me right as I touched the doorframe.
“Might I ask what you’re going to be doing during your time off?”
I stalled, wondering if I should really tell him, but then I figured he probably knew about my drug use all along. What I was doing wasn’t something to be ashamed about, so I shouldn’t be ashamed to tell him. I halfway turned to him, and with a small smile, I answered, “I’m going to rehab.”