|posted on 17-Feb-2002 8:17:18 PM by Trinity Star1323|
Rating: R- drug references
Disclaimer: UPN owns Roswell, the characters, and situations. Elizabeth Wurtzel is cool and deserves major props for her book, “More, Now, Again” which this came from, though it was slightly altered. No infringement intended. Nothing is mine.
Summary: Future Fic. Five years into the future. Liz POV
Authors Notes: WARNING: this will be sad and downright depressing, but it does have a point.
Florida. How many times have I run away to Florida by now? God better know because I don’t. But I love it. There are no seasons here. Sure people lie and say that about other places, but as I said, it’s all a lie. Even New Mexico has seasons. I remember a time when I still lived with my parents and would run around the apartment screaming that it was freezing.
It was 85 degrees out. I turned the thermostat up to 90.
But Florida doesn’t have any seasons. The land is flat and the terrain is even flatter. It is always warm. It is always bright. It is always perfect.
I’ll admit that the Christmas lights on the neighboring stores and houses looks silly, but it’s all in good spirit. But the weather is perfect. Or, at least it is most of the time.
There was a hurricane yesterday. It was the evening news and everyone was really frightened by it. Funny, because I wasn’t; I welcomed it.
No one was hurt.
But time stood still for that short period of time.
Time. Now there is a funny word. I can’t even tell time anymore. The only way I can even start to estimate time is by how long I can go between pills.
Ten minutes, maybe if I’m lucky.
I used to be better. I used to be able to wait fifteen minutes and sometimes even a half hour. Before that I could go a whole hour. But that was months ago.
Or maybe weeks. All I know is that time passes slowly, or too fast. Either way, it makes no difference because I can’t even tell.
Every day, every five minutes, every two seconds I crush up my pills and sniff them like dust. You remember doing this. You probably did it during middle or high school, only with pixie sticks. My pills are my pixie sticks. They are my sugar. They act as the sweetness in the days that have none. They drip through me like tupelo honey.
Then they’re gone. That’s when I need more.
I always need more.
For all of my life I’ve needed more.
So now you’re probably asking what’s my fix? My response: anything. Right now my pills are methylphenidate hydrochloride. Brand name, Ritalin.
But I’ll take anything. I’ll take Dexedrine or any other kind of prescription amphetamine that I can get. I used to swallow them. At first it was only ten milligrams a day.
Ten tiny milligrams every four hours and no more than three times a day. At least that was what my doctor said. But one day I took more. I cut one in half in hopes of prolonging the last of my supply. And that’s when it happened. Some powder crumbled off of my uneven slice.
My whole face lit up. I was like a child on Christmas morning. The present was just in my reach and I wanted to rip the wrapping off it.
So I did the only logical thing.
I snorted it up.
And for the first time, something different happened in my brain. It was like some sort of scratchy rush. My throat burned and my eyes teared up.
I loved it.
And since then I’ve been crushing them up like that on purpose.
I inhale thirty-six pills a day.
That’s how I spend my days now. I smash up my pills into beautiful sand-like granules and make it go away.
Right now I live in a hole-in-the-wall apartment behind the Safeway in Safety Harbor, Florida. It’s like some sort of cosmic joke; this whole setup of my life is like some sort of picture from a poster that says, “This is YOUR brain on drugs.”
Most of you knew me before in Roswell, New Mexico so it’s probably pretty hard to imagine or believe this. No one really believes this. I don’t blame them. Sometimes I don’t even believe this.
I don’t have a driver’s license. That’s mainly because I cannot safely get behind the wheel of a car without endangering my own or anyone else’s life. Of course it only fits that I live someplace that has no sidewalks.
But like I said, I live behind the Safeway so I can get whatever I need on foot. It’s just a hop, skip and jump away.
I know how I got here, I know how I found this apartment, and I remember the ad in the newspaper, yet I can’t tell you one thing: I don’t know how I got HERE.
My life, in all its apparent disorder, has always been carefully planned. Just as it was meant to be, right? My dad told me when I was nine that I would go to Harvard and graduate and become some sort of great scientist. I told myself when I was fourteen that I would do as my father wished. And in my college recommendation, my high school science teacher said that she could see growing up, attending Harvard and working for Harvard.
So I graduated from Harvard and started working for Harvard. And you know what, I have always had the gift of making it all look like some big lucky accident, like whoops, here I landed, gee whiz, what do you know.
But it’s all been so premeditated. I’m exactly what everyone thought I would be.
I am the least surprising person you’ll ever meet.
But not this. This is really an accident.
Every addict tells the same stories about where drugs took her. Usually it is about where you spent the night, how long you blacked out for, or how you lost your life, only to reclaim it again.
So I guess, in a way, I’m just like everyone else. I’m just another fish-out-of-water, or human-being-in-water.
Everyone is retired here or transient, or sometimes there are college students visiting during school breaks.
But what I love about Florida is that no one has last names. This is surely the most anonymous place I could ever be. If I tried to tell my neighbors about my life in Roswell they would not care. If I told them that I had dated an alien who had run off with his destiny and son into the sunset, they would not care. If I told them that Maria, my best friend who was a human, married an alien, they would not care. And if I told them that those same aliens killed a human being, they would not care.
If it’s not of immediate use to them, if it’s not about borrowing detergent or a ride to the supermarket, they don’t hear it.
They are the nicest people, but it’s all about the next five minutes.
And by now, my whole life is about the next five minutes.
There are no human or even alien beings in my story. Not really.
And that’s my favorite thing about my pills: they are my only relationship.
The only thing I care about is where more will come from. That is all I need to worry about. Otherwise I might not exist. I am in a place where there is no difference between April and January, and the only time that matters is the minutes between pills when all I think about is my next line.
When nothing else happens all day, when all there is to show for it is some work I’ve done, when it’s been nothing special, my pills are my treat.
They used to be a treat. Late at night, they were something to look forward to. I could tell myself: I can still get high. I would tell myself: this is the sugar in my bowl.
But now it’s my life. Pills are my everything.
At the end of the day, other people ask themselves: is this all there is? And I realized long ago that I don’t want to wait for that answer.
I’m not stupid. I don’t wait to see if today will be better than yesterday because I already know.
And these pills are deep inside me.
What person could ever get this close? Who would want to?
And I swear to you, and I don’t care how this sounds, I think it’s love.
And if you don’t understand, you don’t know what love is.
Sorry, just had to write it. I was working on She's the One when I got the idea for this one. I know, I know, back to work.