After Death

Mitra was dead. I went home for a few weeks until my parents got on my nerves, harassing me about having to carry a drawstring bag full of prescription bottles around. So I went back to Fairfax.

Beka moved in, and we continued living like serious consequences weren’t looming for us both. Consequences never seemed real until they were actually happening, even then I felt disconnected. It wasn’t until much later that I truly felt whatever event my conscious had glossed over.

Private mental anguish – why I’m silent and look far away most of the time. I’m reliving my life for the first time, repeated on a sickening loop. Why some days I can’t get out of bed. I’d rather be lost in dreams.

I hire an overpriced defense attorney and work on selling my Mountaineer. Beka and I barely leave the apartment my parents no longer subsidize. We prefer to have our drugs delivered, brought in, catered if you will.

Beka has serious charges all coming to a head in June. I know the bare minimum – selling to an undercover, twice, and forging prescriptions. There may have been a DUI in there too. All I knew was that it was bad, like going to prison bad.

I don’t know if she didn’t want to talk about it, or if I was too wrapped up in my own legal affairs to ask. Probably a bit of both. We were both on pre-trial supervision and had different techniques for dealing with our probation officers.

I would walk in, pants jangling with pill bottles, a stack of prescription copies in my ghostly white hands, and cry about my dead girlfriend. Most of the time the tears were real. I’d stopped seeing my real therapist in favor of my fake psychiatrist.

Beka’s tactic was more bold. She would go in and tell the truth, well most of the truth. She’d admit to using Klonopin and Subutex, but fail to mention the syringe she used to inject them or all of the money she was spending on makeup to cover the marks.

Our days were full, but we got nothing accomplished.

We decide to leave the apartment one night and get kicked out of a bar in Fairfax after two hours. I lose a black sport’s coat with $400 in the pocket, and Beka gets a third DUI when we decide to pull over for a nap on the way home.

Another afternoon we drive across the street to Walmart and Capital One so I can withdrawal money for pills, and Beka locks her keys in the car. We try to use my parent’s AAA, and when that fails we bust out her back window with a chunk of asphalt. We need the car to get the pills.

One night we get high with creepy Sean, and Beka puts on lingerie. We take pictures of her in Bentely’s cage and post them to Facebook. My sister’s boyfriend calls and asks me ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’ .

Another night I take too many Dexedrine, Adderall, and Vyvanse (why all three? because I could) and am thrown into full blown paranoia. I accuse Beka of being a criminal informant and gathering intelligence on me for the police.

Instead of denying the accusations, she (who is on just as many uppers) accuses me of the same thing, and tells me I’m just trying to ward off a guilty conscious. This goes on for a good 20 minutes before I start crying, and we both apologize.

The next day I spend $500 getting a new stereo installed on the SUV I’m trying to sell. Afterwards, we drive to George Mason so I can sell the textbooks I barely opened last semester. I start staying up for 36 hour periods reading the collective works of Kurt Vonnegut.

My sentencing is scheduled for the end of May, coinciding perfectly with the end of my lease at Avalon Fairlakes. Somehow it’s decided that I will be returning to Pittsburgh after my three weeks in Loudon County Jail. I don’t remember being part of said decision. Three weeks is what my lawyer tells me, but I figure I’ll charm the judge at my sentencing, and I’ll get another slap on the wrist. Although, even enough little slaps in the same spot starts to hurt after awhile.

A storage unit is secured in Pittsburgh, and my father rents a U-Haul for two days before the hearing. I pack a few boxes, mostly books, but leave the rest of the apartment untouched. Beka and I need the backdrop for our nightly business ventures. One night we meet a famous celebrity chef. The rest of the men are unremarkable, numbers not even saved as contacts.

The night before my Father arrives, we buy some ecstasy from an Asian girl at the Towers and decide to inject it. The ecstasy isn’t great, but shooting it is fun. We have sex for hours and soak the mattress through with sweat.

As we come down we smoke Marlboros on my porch and spray paint a chair we found by the dumpster. Bentley watches from inside, ripping stuffing out of another new bear.

I’m reupholstering (poorly) the chair when my Father arrives the next morning. He’s 30 minutes early as usual. Luckily I hadn’t slept. When he enters my apartment he’s livid that I haven’t packed more of my things.

He goes to take a nap, and Beka and I continue working on our chair. I can’t understand why he’s so upset about the packing.

There’s obviously more important issues at hand here.