Low
A/N: Just a little something I wrote based on personal experiences. Any and all grammatical mistakes in this are intentional.
It's when I stumbled into the front room of my apartment building that I really started having trouble. I couldn't walk straight by then, and it was getting harder and harder for me to keep my eyes focused. I was just getting to the point where I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, almost drowning out the heavy sounds of my own breaths.
When I got to the security door, I placed my forehead against it, using the cool glass to chill the heat cutting through me. I just lay there like that for a few long moments, trying to remember what I wanted. What did I have to do? Where the hell was I? What the fuck fuck fuck--
My hand was in my pocket, and it pulled out my wallet. My fingers promptly fumbled it, and the leather pouch fell to the ground. I glanced at it distractedly for a moment, wondering why exactly I'd wanted it in the first place. I always carry that thing around with me, but is it really necessary? I mean, it's got my bus pass in it, but I could easily keep that in my pocket. Do I really buy much during the day? If I do buy shit, it's generally just terrible crap food or something like that.
As I think of that, I can't help but envision the schwarmas I normally bought for lunch, and I felt a ravenous pang deep in my guts. It looked so good... but not quite right. I needed something better... more filling... the idea of a tall glass of orange juice came to my mind, and I almost shuddered in want for it. Wouldn't that be nice right now? I could probably just take the entire jug out of my fridge, chug the entire thing...
What am I thinking about? What do I want? Food. No, what was in my wallet that I needed? Cash, credit cards, bus pass, key, ID...
Key. My keycard.
I bent down, and grabbed it up, fumbling with clumsy fingers at the plastic in its tight sleeve. I just manage to tug it out before the leather slips from my hands again. Who cares, not important right now. I'm too hungry to care about that kind of shit.
I brought the keycard down to the card reader, but my hands were shaking so bad that I missed the first pass at the slot. I let a soft whimper build deep in my throat, and try again. I almost drop the card as it bounces off of the slot. Why is this so hard... why is this so god damned fucking hard right fucking now? Why the--
"Sir, may I help you?"
I turn around. It's one of the night guards... night watchmen... night people. People who work the front counter at night and make sure nobody comes in who doesn't belong here... no... no trespassers. He's a big brute of a bloodhound, and I wonder for a moment why they're called that. Bloodhound? Do they drink blood or something? The thought of blood, thick and warm, and full of nutrients, is suddenly clear in my mind, seeming delicious beyond my instinctive revulsion. What the fuck is wrong with me...
"Sir?"
I blink. How long has it been since he first talked to me? It feels like seconds, like years. I can only stare at him blankly for a moment, before I give a shake and point to the card reader. I try to think of how to say it. "My key... the card won't... I can't..."
The bloodhound cocks his head to the side, and says, "Sir, I think I might have to ask you to leave."
"Not..." He thinks I'm high. Or drunk. Or who knows what else. I haven't taken a fucking thing tonight. Doesn't he know that I'm clean? That I never touch that shit? Why doesn't he know that? Is he fucking stupid? I try speaking again, my voice a bit harder this time. "I wouldn't..."
"Calm down, sir."
You don't fucking tell somebody who's freaking out to calm down. Doesn't he fucking know that? And I'm not some druggy or boozy or whatever the fuck it is... doesn't he understand how it... It's hard enough to understand him as it is, with this fucking constant beating in my ears, but he should at least try to fucking understand me. "Shut... I just want..."
"Chris?"
A new voice. The bloodhound turns around to look, and I follow his line of sight a moment later. There's somebody white coming towards me. A rabbit. I think she's a rabbit. I know her, don't I?
"Do you know this man, ma'am?"
"Yes, this is Chris. He's my neighbour; room 312."
Edith. That's it. Her name's Edith. I try saying it once. "Edith."
She glances at me, and now that she's closer, I can see her pink eyes. So weird. White fur, pink eyes. Weird. Always thought that. Those pink eyes watch me for a moment, before she turns back to the security g- that's it! Security guard.
"Alright, I'll bring him upstairs."
"Are you sure you'll be safe, ma'am? He doesn't seem in his right mind, if you catch my meaning."
Why would he say that why would he fucking say that can't he see that something's wrong?
"I'll be fine. He's not a danger to anybody right now. Right, Chris?"
I stare at her for what feels like a solid minute, trying to figure out what she wants me to say. How do I agree with her? What's the word...? I nod.
Without another word, she pulls out her own keycard, and swipes it with ease. How did she do that so easily. She opens the door for me, and grabs my arm. Her warm fur on mine is a shock; I'm so stunned that when she gives me a gentle tug, I stumble through the security door with no trouble. She scoops up my wallet from the ground before following me through, and grinning back to the security guard as the door closes.
I've already got my forehead against the elevator's door when she comes back, and she sighs. She presses the up button, and then turns to me.
"You really got yourself messed up tonight, didn't you, Chris?"
"I didn't..." What didn't I do? What did I do? What the fuck is going on and why can't I tell--
"I know." Her voice is low, but calm. I feel her hand on my shoulder, and it's nice. "It's alright Chris."
The elevator opens with a ding, and it's empty. She leads me in, and hits the button for the third floor. As I stand there, watching, her, something just comes over me. I don't know where it's from, I don't know what it is. All I know is that I'm hungry, I'm exhausted, I'm confused, and I want things to be better. What if I am losing it? What if I did take something while I was out tonight, one of those crazy things that you do once and it fucks you so badly that you're hooked for life? What if I wake up tomorrow and they've sent me to the fucking loonie bin? What if it never stops feeling like this, if I don't stop--
That hand is on my shoulder again. I glance over at Edith, and her eyes are soft as she looks at me. Then, she pulls me forward, and I feel warm arms around me. I bury my face in her shoulder, and it's only when I feel tears in her fur that I realize that I was crying.
"It's okay. It's alright now. You're going to be okay."
"It's so hard... it's so fucking hard."
I look past her shoulder into the mirror on the wall of the elevator. A tall, heavily built bull is looking back at me, blubbering like some three year old that just dropped his ice cream. Ice cream... that sounds good right now, too, but not as good as that juice.
Fuck, why can't I fucking focus? Edith is still hugging me, and even in my distraction, I'm still crying like a baby. When the door dings open, she pulls out of the hug, and takes my wrist, leading me along. I follow obediently, not knowing what else to do.
When we reach my door, she takes something from my hand. It's only then that I realize that I've been holding that keycard for the entire time.
She swipes the card, and then pushes the door open, pulling me behind her. Heavy sobs are still wracking my form, but now they're as much from frustration as anything else. I want to stop crying. Jesus Christ, I'm twenty three and I'm crying in the open like this. I don't even have anything to be sad about, so why the hell can't I...
She sits me down at my table, and then goes to the fridge. I put my head on the table, and hold my hands over it. That horrible beating sound, the sound of my own blood in my ears, it's still there. Deafening. Make it stop make it stop make it stop please--
There's a plonking sound, and I look up. Edith has put a glass of orange juice on the table in front of me. Not thinking, I grab it, and down the entire thing in two gulps. The liquid is barely in my mouth for longer than a second, but it's the most wonderful thing I've ever tasted.
I put it down, but hold the glass tightly in my hand. My knuckles flex and relax on the cool glass for a while, and I focus on that rhythmic movement.
It takes a while before I realize what's happened. There's still a heavy fog over my mind, and that thumping in my ears is still quite clear when I say, my voice shaking and strained from concentration, "My glucometer's on my bedside table. Could you grab it?"
Without a word, she goes and grabs it, bringing it back to me. My big, shaking fingers have trouble getting out a test strip, and it's even harder to hold my hand steady enough to get a small blood sample off of it. Once I've applied the blood sample, I sit back and close my eyes, waiting for the little machine to do its work.
There's a beep, and I look down. "Three point two. How long ago did I drink that orange juice?"
"About twelve minutes ago."
"Fuck," I mutter, realizing just how low I must've gone. "I need another glass."
She refills my glass, and I down it again; slower, this time. In another five minutes, my hands have stopped shaking, and I can think clearly. There's still a bit of nervous tension running through my muscles, but besides that, I feel normal.
I'm slouching in the chair by this point. She walks over, and calmly asks, "Are you going to be alright, now?"
"Yes."
"Alright, I'm heading to bed. I have class in the morning."
I nod, watching her go. Before she can close the door behind her, though, I call out, "Thank you."
She pauses. Then, I hear her voice, calling back, "That's what friends are for." Then she's gone, and I'm left sitting in my chair, exhausted.