Clara's Descent

Chapter 9

The house had gone quiet again.

Too quiet.

Everything was tidy, sanitized, as if nothing had happened.

As if the entire afternoon had been a filthy dream, swept away by the wind.

And yet -- Alex's scent still clung to the sheets, to my skin, to my sex still burning.

I sat on the couch with a drink in hand and stared into the void.

For a long time.

The silence hit me like a slow slap.

I couldn't breathe.

Not from fatigue -- from absence.

He was gone.

He'd left the pipe, a few meth rocks, a bag of coke.

Scraps of paradise.

I'd put them away carefully. Almost reverently.

Like someone hides relics.

But none of it could replace his voice.

His body.

His eyes on me.

He had stolen something.

Or maybe he had given it back.

I didn't know anymore.

I was caught in between.

Not quite myself. Not quite someone else.

A woman in suspension -- high, in love, a widow to a living god.

I thought of him constantly.

His breath.

The way he held me, spoke to me, fucked me.

The drugs.

That immense pleasure.

And now -- that immense void.

Everything around me was so clean. So empty.

The ticking of the clock became unbearable.

Every second pulled me back to absence. To waiting.

I was nothing more than a body waiting for its next dose.

Its next visit.

I lit a cigarette. Took a sip.

I imagined what I'd say to him tomorrow.

How I'd dress.

How I'd undress.

How I'd give myself again.

More.

As if that were the only way to exist.

Night was falling, and I was floating.

The vodka warmed my veins.

The nicotine soothed me.

But nothing calmed that new thing inside me.

That need.

I got up -- naked, bare feet on cold tiles.

I went to look at myself in the mirror.

My reflection was strange --

Red eyes, hollow cheeks, swollen lips, breasts still marked by his fingers.

And yet, I found myself beautiful.

For the first time in years.

Ruined.

But beautiful.

I smiled. Then cried.

No sound.

Just a slow stream of tears that didn't wash anything away.

I finished my drink.

Then poured another.

And waited.

Chapter 10

Jeremy came home a little before eight.

The sound of the key in the lock rang like a death knell.

I was ready: the living room tidied up, glasses washed, the table hastily set with lukewarm soup and slightly stale bread -- the kind of performance he never questions, too absorbed in himself to notice.

-- Hi, I said softly.

-- Hi, he replied without looking at me.

He took off his shoes, hung his jacket over the back of a chair, just like every evening, with mechanical precision. Then he sat down, sighed loudly, and gave a brief commentary about the traffic, his annoying colleague, how tired he was.

Same script, scratched and looping.

I nodded along.

Pretended.

I was calm.

Too calm.

But inside, I was buzzing.

I wasn't really there anymore.

My body was sitting at that table, but my mind was elsewhere -- replaying yesterday, this morning, the coke, the meth, Alex.

The way he looked at me.

His voice.

My skin still humming from his touch.

And suddenly, this house felt like a prison cell.

Tight.

Stale.

Too small for the fever inside me.

Jeremy talked.

I stared at a spot on the tablecloth -- maybe an oil stain.

Everything felt slow.

Heavy.

Pointless.

Then it hit me -- the wave of need.

That tension at my temples, the hollow ache in my gut.

I needed a way out.

Fast.

-- I'm going to take out the trash, I said.

-- Now? It's dark...

-- Exactly. Might as well enjoy the cool air.

He didn't insist.

He never does.

I picked up the bag I'd prepared earlier, filled with old packaging for cover, and slipped the little metal box into my cardigan pocket.

Outside, the silence was almost soothing.

I headed straight to the back of the garden, heart racing.

There, hidden behind the compost bin, I pulled out the pipe. Lit the flame. Heated the rock.

A dense white smoke rose slowly.

I inhaled deeply.

Immediately -- warmth.

Tingling.

The deep tremor.

My body relaxed all at once.

My head floated up and away.

I closed my eyes.

And smiled.

I was fine.

Perfect.

I stayed there for a few minutes, alone in the night, pulling clouds of paradise in a quiet suburban alley.

Then, silently, I came back inside.

In the bathroom, I drew two quick lines on the lid of a moisturizer jar. Snorted them without hesitation.

My nose stung, but my brain lit up.

I was alive again.

I came out of the bathroom, feigning calm.

Jeremy was watching TV, feet on the coffee table, eyes glazed over.

-- You took your time.

-- It was nice out. I lingered.

He didn't reply.

He never does.

The evening dragged like a lifeless body.

Me -- weightless.

Him -- anchored in his fatigue, his screen, his not-knowing.

At midnight, he said good night without touching me, without even looking. Then he went upstairs to bed.

I waited a bit.

Then downed half a glass of vodka. Smoked a cigarette. Vaped obsessively.

But nothing could still the agitation inside me.

I was way too high to sleep.

Too far from that cold-sheeted conjugal bed.

I lay down on the couch, naked under a blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Tried to relax.

Nothing worked.

I took another hit of meth.

Softly.

Just one last pipe.

The smoke calmed me. For a moment.

But an hour later, I was still there.

Eyes open.

Throat dry.

Heart pounding.

Head full of Alex.

Of my fingers between my thighs.

Of his breath in my ear.

I got up. Drank from the bottle.

Cried -- silently.

Then I picked up my crumpled notebook and started to write:

I float.

I float in a dark, sugary swamp.

I don't sleep.

I don't dream.

I fly.

I am the toxic version of myself -- and she's the only one I can love.

And I waited for the sun to rise.