Break Free & Be Broken (3 page)

Now what I do, I do to maintain. My strength increases slowly these days, but at least it hasn't stopped. Like a meeting with a demon I fear the day time catches me and I plateau, and like a meeting with the devil I fear the day age takes me and I start regressing back. Maybe that, more than anything, is why I refuse to stop: refuse to let up for even a day. I can't stop believing my peak is still ahead. What the fuck will I do once I reach it?

Jump from the top, I suppose.

I move to my room, open the closet, and pull out my work clothes. Blue pants, blue button up shirt, black jacket. I work security: another one of life's great let downs. I got the job with high hopes. I thought it was going to be exciting-an excuse to use this body I've worked so hard to create-but just like all things, it is dull: lifeless. I even picked a spot that I thought was one of the worst in town, and yes, the spot is surrounded by shitty people, but if they are doing crime, they aren't doing it around me.

Heartless fucks.

The place I work is some chemical plant. I don't know what kind of chemicals they deal with. Truth be told, I'm not even a hundred percent sure it's chemicals at all. It seems like I was told that once, but I didn't care then and I don't care now. All I wanted was to bust some heads-exert my power over others in a helpful, legal way-but no one comes during the night when this place is mine. Nope. Instead, I mostly just wander around, shadow boxing with phantoms to pass the time.

I never sit and do nothing. I'm always patrolling: always alert. I may not like the job, but I'll be damned if I let myself become one of the good-for-nothing slugs who don't give their best to whatever it is they're doing. Laziness is sickening. It's a disease. When I do something, I do it right. That much, at least, can be said of me. Perhaps that is all that can be said. No matter.

Tonight is much like any night. A whole lot of nothing is going on. I complain, but only to pass the time. At the end of the day, I certainly can't claim to enjoy what I do, but I can't claim to hate it either. It is what it is: a means to an end.

My shift is 6:00 to 11:00, six days a week-only part time-and I only get part time benefits, aka: none. I don't give a fuck about insurance and all that jazz though, so no benefits for less work sits fine with me. I take care of my body during my free time. Doctors, for the most part, are an unnecessary perversion at best; and believe me, I don't use the word perversion lightly. And besides, if insurance was a good deal for the customer, it wouldn't be a thing. Insurance businesses aren't among the wealthiest in the world because they are doing people a favor.

Here's a little secret for the young. Take whatever you would be paying on insurance and create your own 'insurance account.' If normal life prevails-as it normally does-chances are you will have a fine sum saved up by the time something happens and you actually need it. Use what you saved. If you never need it, at least it’s still yours.

Ah, but what am I saying? Such a plan is only for the strong: those with discipline, capable of taking health into their own hands, who are unafraid to exercise, eat well, brush their damn teeth, and deal with the minor sicknesses we all encounter without running to the medical house for chemicals to kill the pain.

This thought just in: maybe most just simply enjoy having insurance. It's sort of like a free pass to not live well. Why handle your own health when you can pay Mr. Doctor to do it for you?

How wretched... how wretched indeed.

These are the crunchy thoughts on which I must chew to pass the time. I check my watch: 8:27. Great. Only an hour and thirty three minutes until my final hour of work. I groan. I can make it.

Bored with the inside, I move to the out: time to scan the perimeter. In winter, when frost is dense in the air and all warm things have hidden away, this action is especially pointless, but the cold air is good to my lungs, and the change of scenery is good to my brain. I step out into the fridge that is the world and take a deep breath. The cold punches its way into my throat, but by the time it reaches my lungs, it no longer wields its icy sword. I take a moment to contemplate what cold lungs would feel like. I rub my chest. I imagine it would feel normal, except cold.

There's a clink in the distance. Like my surroundings, I freeze, all my attention directed to my ears...

Only silence.

I stay frozen a moment longer, straining to hear another sound: another clue. No such clue comes. My mind begins sorting the little information I have. The sound was far, but not that far. It had to have been within the fence! Ears having failed, I turn to my eyes. The sound came from that way, but there's nothing there: only fence and shadow. But ah! There's a window. And it looks to be...

The ghoul called Fear looms near my shoulder.

The window is open.

Was it open before? I use memory to put myself back inside. I don't recall seeing it open, and I don't remember having cool wind blow against my skin whilst walking that area...

Fear places its hand upon me, bringing with it a masochistic excitement. This may be it. This may be the night something actually happens!

I draw my flashlight and knife (one was given to me for the job, the other I bring for my own satisfaction). I put my finger on the flashlight, ready to ignite the world in artificial light, but sense stays my hand. If I let the villain know I'm onto him, he may simply run. Better to sneak up in shadow, catch him unaware, and give myself opportunity to use my blade.

Unrestrained adrenaline pumps through me as if broken from a dam. I creep inside, fully alert, fully aware: fully prepared to do harm. I swear my ears have never worked better. If there's a foreign sound, I will hear it.

Creeping, creeping, I move around inside. I can't help but criticize myself for having pulled my flashlight in the first place. It's well lit in here. I never needed to pull it out! Oh well. It's metal and fairly heavy-a fine club for my off hand.

I grip tightly my knife.

There's a movement behind me. My hands shoot to my head and I quail against the wall, then spring forward in an uncoordinated, cowardly motion. I lose balance in the frantic jump and start to fall: to twist and to fall. With both hands occupied, I have nothing to brace myself with and hit the floor all elbows and ass. I scuttle back, expecting the end to be nigh, only to see a loose tarp flapping in the breeze.

Lo, my attacker.

First relief, and then: fury. And oh, what fury indeed! If that was an intruder I would be dead! If that was a test I would have failed! If that was a mouse... I'd be the same bitch who sits before you now. FUCK. I throw my knife in anger. Childish, I know, yet oh so very fitting considering my latest act.

You think you know yourself. You think you can run something through in your head enough times and that is how you will react in real life. It doesn't work that way, and if it does, well... then it doesn't for me. I've pictured a thousand different break in scenarios a thousand different times, and not once in my imaginings did I ever scamper and fall like a damn goof. Yet here I am, grounded by a harmless piece of tarp.

What a shame.

I get to my feet and wander off to find my blade. With each step, anger's face looks more and more like disgust, and it’s with the greatest displeasure I remember my shift is far from over and I'll have to stew in this hideous feeling till then. No chance I'll forgive myself before the end.

Bleh... I'm really not in the mood for this. Not tonight. This could-no no no-this
will
be my last night working here.

I pause a moment to shudder at the conviction held within that thought. I've done a good job not thinking about tomorrow today. For the promise it holds to suddenly spring up as if it's a sure thing disturbs me. I find my knife and scoop it up, refocusing on my failure to prevent myself giving anymore thought to tomorrow. It's still too soon to think of that.

I check my watch: 9:09. Oh god... two hours left. The problem: I don't have two hours in me. At least, not in this state of mind. Maybe it's because of the failure, maybe it's because of my sudden acknowledgement of tomorrow, but I decide that it's time to do something I've never done before.

It's time to get high on the job.

Just thinking about taking a hit of my sweet, sweet drug immediately wipes away all unsavory thoughts and feelings, replacing them with a giddy, tense excitement. There's a nervous edge to the excitement that slices into my brain in a way that distorts reality, as if what I'm considering is so preposterous the world will forever change if I go through with it. I haven't used for any purpose besides going to bed in years. This could potentially unleash hell upon the regimen I've worked so hard to build... but what can be done now? I allowed the thought to plant, seed, and grow-killing it at this stage is not something I'm currently equipped to do.

I make the move toward my car. I'm damn near trembling with anticipation by the time I get there. I open the door and sit inside. Slowly, slowly!- I let my hand make its way to the glove box. I click the handle and open it falls. There isn't much inside: another knife, the owner’s manual to my car, a pen tube, a lighter, a piece of foil, and my black precious, the devil’s tar!

Heroine.

It's a little known fact about me that I am, in a broad sense of the word, an addict. I must have my drug. Through years of dedicated effort, I've been able to shackle my habit to once a day-using it only as a miracle medicine to save me at night when my thoughts are prone to take on the darkness of the surrounding world and torture me. Heroine helps me to sleep, but more importantly, it makes me feel good, almost as if the world is not as bad as it seems.

My addiction may be as disciplined as I, but it's still an addiction, and I am still ashamed of it. I won't lie: I hate that I need it. One of my biggest problems with life is that this substance-this body wrecking, soul crushing, lung destroying substance-is the only thing left that gives me joy. Well... maybe it's not the only thing...

Who am I kidding? Yes it is.

I suppose there
are
other things that give me satisfaction, but heroine's the only thing that really makes me
happy
. That isn't to say I'm happy I do it, but despite my problems, when I'm high, I'm at peace. I'm not pushing myself to be more than I am or hating on myself for all that I'm not. It soothes my restless soul, and for that, I will always be its voluntary slave.

My hands begin to shake as I unfold the foil. This is most unprecedented. The years of effort I spent putting heroine in her place revolt in response to my actions: tightening my wrists, curling my fingers, and making my hands difficult to use.

I pause. Maybe I shouldn't do this. Work will be done soon. Maybe I should just stay on track.

The black wad of tar in my lap cries out to me with its siren call. No. There can be no turning back. I'm here, and I'm doing this. Then I can finish work, and maybe even take one more hit after. Two hits in a day won't be the end of the world. I can handle it, and if I can't... that will be a problem for tomorrow.

I pinch a small piece of tar from the clump and place it on the foil. Next, I position the pen tube in my mouth, taking a deep breath as I do so.

Last chance, friend. You can still turn back.

I flick the lighter to life. I'm not turning back. I tilt the foil at a slight angle and bring the flame under it: under my drug. The tar begins to boil and slide, smoke escaping from its tail. I put the tube above the smoke and suck in the delicious narcotic. It tickles me from my tongue to my lung. I slip with pleasure, enjoying the sensation of the smoke as well as the slightly sweet, crisp aroma it exudes-a cotton candy barbecue.

I trace a looong line down the tin. Too long perhaps. A cough convulses from deep inside, threatening to empty me of my glorious smoke. I steel myself, only allowing a small amount to get away. I want to berate myself for losing control but it's too late for anger. My heroine is already doing her job, sweeping away any and all intense emotion and leaving me numb, happy, and sedated.

Oh baby.

I don't know if it was the high strung nature of this night or the size of the hit that made such an impact, but sweet Jesus, I'm floating. I fall back against my chair, expelling the little smoke that wasn't absorbed into my lungs. I continue to sink back into the chair until I can't really tell where I end and it begins. The whole world is just soft, easy, and kind. I let my eyes close and enjoy my shallow, gentle breaths. My hand drifts lazily up to the dashboard. I turn on some music. The beating of the base pushes me deeper into the chair; deeper than I ever thought I could go.

Oh... fuck yeah... This is what I call a night.

I try to focus on the music, my breathing—
anything
to keep me from sinking all the way down to oblivion, but truth be told, I want oblivion, and slowly... sweetly... I let it claim me.

There's a crash from afar. I'm ejected from my stupor so fast my mind is nearly broken by whiplash. It takes me a fat second to figure out where I am, let alone what I just heard. I'm at my job, but I'm not doing my job. Something just toppled over inside. The things in there are too big to topple on their own. The window was open. Somebody
was
inside. And me... I'm out here. Doing drugs.