Crystal Death

Tic. Tic.

Her wall clock needs a battery.

It's been 6:35 PM for about a week now.

She sits rocking on her couch alone.

Barefoot, in just her sweatshirt and panties.

Sweat beads on her forehead.

She just took another hit from her glass pipe.

She watches the poison heat up and bubble.

Crystal Death, she calls it.

She sucks in the smoke slowly, closing her eyes.

She exhales and her brain buzzes.

Shaking, she puts the glass pipe down on her metal tray,.

She does this so carefully it almost appears to be in slow motion.

The pipe tings loudly.

Panicked, she checks it for cracks.

She double checks the small container that holds her stash.

She does this constantly, she knows it, but some how it seems to comfort her.

She closes the lid.

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, they are blurry.

Blurry from the dope exiting her body.

Her eyes burn from the lack of sleep.

She nodded off earlier, she thinks, but she's still not sure.

It's been a couple days.

She knows it's Tuesday because she heard the garbage truck pass through this morning.

She knows it's past dinner time because she heard the school kids running up the stairs to the apartment above her.

Her blond hair is dirty, matted to her head.

Her hands are drenched, they hurt from her clenching them.

Her fingers swollen, her nails are bitten to the quick.

She chews on her bottom lip.

She tries to remember when she ate last, tries to remember what it even was.

Her stomach rumbles.

She's feeling nauseous, she thinks she may be sick.

Swallowing hard, all she tastes is the dope.

Tic. Tic.

She looks at the clock on the wall and lets out a sigh.

She shakes out a smoke, lights it.

The pack feels light.

"Two left, gotta make them last," she tells herself.

It's been a couple days since she left her apartment.

Saturday night, she bought cigarettes then, she scored dope.

She sits Indian style; tensely and silently in her living room space.

"It's hot in here," she mutters.

Her eyes zipping all over from the floor to the corners of the room.

Her eyes only move.

Her senses on high alert.

She hears everything.

Footsteps in the hall.

Car doors slam.

The neighbor's keys jingle.

A phone ringing in an apartment down the hall.

She stubs out the cigarette.

Lights the pipe, watches the smoke swirl.

Takes in her doom.

She tries to remember her life before this addiction, she tries.

Shakes off the thought, reality scares her.

Makes her brain hurt.

The small television is on.

It sits on an old, broken table.

It's perched, perhaps it's squawking at her.

Laughing at her paranoia.

Her eyes dart past the television.

Past the static that's been playing for hours, days.

To the door; the small window that sits just above the entry door is open.

Wondering how long it has been opened.

Wondering if a person could fit through that opening.

And now she's looking around again.

She shakes off the chill.

The over rated feeling like she's being watched.

Drip. Drip.

The kitchen faucet has been leaking since she moved in a month ago.

The buzzing of the lights.

The humming of the refrigerator.

Her heart is racing.

She's feels her pulse in her neck.

There's humming in her ears.

Her hands clench the couch pillows.

The couch is plaid, it's old, it's dingy.

The walls are freshly painted white.

She studies them.

Finding her mistakes.

She curses out loud, she has to do them again.

"This will be the fourth time!" She bellows deeply.

She reaches for the pipe, lights it and takes in the Crystal Death.

Her lungs fill, she tilts her head back and holds the pull as long as she can.

Nausea creeps up on her.

She's gotta eat something, she gets up to walk to the refrigerator.

Her legs are stiff from sitting so long.

She looks out the window.

The street lights are on.

It's dark outside, quiet outside, it must be late.

She stops and tries to hear past the beating of her heart.

The building is quiet, kids are asleep.

The little refrigerator hums low and it looks lonely in the kitchen, even though it sets next to the stove.

She hasn't used the stove yet and wonders if it even works.

Wonders if it's gas or electric, looks at the burners and decides it's electric.

She opens the refrigerator door.

There's peanut butter, mayo, old lunch meat, cheese and milk.

She tosses the lunch meat in the garbage, the milk is old too, but she decides to leave it.

She grabs the peanut butter and a spoon and makes her way back to the couch.

She gets back up and checks the two locks on the door, and stops to look up.

The small window; how long has that been open, she questions herself.

Not sure how to close it, but trying to think of what she could stand on, she considers the table.

"It's broken dumb ass," she says out loud.

She drags the couch to the door and stands on it, not much difference, she thinks.

She then jumps up and partially shuts it.

Satisfied she pushes the couch back to the center of the room.

Hitting the pipe again, she smiles, almost as if the hit is a reward for shutting the window.

Tic. Tic.

The clock reminds her that she must go to town in the morning.

She lights up a smoke and decides to save the last cigarette for the walk to town.

She scrambles her thoughts trying to think of what to pawn next.

Her container is almost empty.

She just about out of dope.

The thought makes her sweat.

She fills her pipe and this hit makes her nose bleed.

The bleeding is heavier tonight.

Her blood pressure is high.

She has trouble stopping the bleeding and she tilts her head back.

She begins to cough, but the blood is too heavy and she starts to swallow it.

Coughing and choking she stands up to vomit.

Her eyes bulge and the pressure in her neck makes her ears buzz.

Panicked, she tries to unlock the door but fails because she is having a hard time seeing.

Her hands are full of blood and her fingers slip from the locks.

Breathless, she falls to her knees.

Choking on her blood.

Her eyes close as she tries to gasp for air.

She takes her last breath as the television squawks, as the kids run down the stairs to catch the morning school bus, as the clock tics.

As life around her continues and moves on.

A week later, the rent is due, the landlord knocks.

He smells something putrid, rancid.

He has smelled this before, he thinks but he can't place it.

He knocks again; no answer.

He fumbles for his keys and finds the one for her door.

He turns the key in the lock and pushes pass the chain.

The door won't budge much further.

He peeks his head in and calls out her name, no answer.

He sees the broken table, hears the tic of the clock on the wall.

He hears the static of the television, sees the dirty plaid couch.

His stomach turns from the smell.

He looks down to the other side of the door to see what's blocking his entry.

He sees her dirty blond hair, she's face down in a pool of dried blood.

He covers his mouth, backs up and lets the apartment door slam shut.

Shaking, he wipes his brow and takes his phone from his pocket.

He dials, "Hello, 911... there's been an accident..."