Life After Death

The incessant tightness of the band. The throbbing fullness of his forearm as the blood protested being trapped. The cool sting of the needle. A drop of blood. The band slipping free, releasing his arm from its torture. The sweet rush as he imagined he could feel the drug on its way through his body. Darkness as he closed his eyes to feel the wonder to its fullest. A deep breath as his nerves started to pick up, quickening. The strange rapid yet heavy thud of his heart. A slow smile as he relived the best couple minutes of his life, again.

Nothing else mattered. Not the voices of people he barely knew and didn't trust. Not the choking air filled with smoke and chemicals that weren't fit to breath. Not the stifling warmness of the room where windows were not allowed open to free fumes that would alert others. Not the past. Not the future. Not the job. Not the pain. And definitely not memories of a life built with dreams in mind on a sunny coast in California. Nothing.

He could almost cry from the lack of emotion about anything. All that mattered was the rush. The effect of the drug on his body. Anticipating, feeling, noting, enjoying each familiar step of the drug flooding his system.

All too soon reality started to filter in. The high was already fading into a painful alertness that had no end. His mind was already ticking over useless information in a ceaseless filing that would continue until he could force himself to sleep. His hand automatically reached for the burning cigarette that he knew would be there. The ritual of lighting a smoke before tying off his arm and injecting himself was frequent and unchanging.

Blowing smoke up out of his lungs to join the hanging cloud that obscured the ceiling, he allowed his gaze to flick about the room. Women speaking in a manner that could only be described as loud and annoying, either thinking that men thought it made them attractive, or knowing that it was difficult to ignore. Men spoke between themselves quietly, passing one-hitters occasionally. The television played a muted porno that seemed to be infinite. A guy fucking a girl from behind, and the woman pretending it was the best fuck of her life. Another faceless couple would follow, and then another. One cum shot after another. All sound in the room was drowned out by the stereo thumping loud enough to cause him to wonder why the police hadn't been called on them yet.

Greg was tinkering in the kitchen. They were going for more anhydrous later and he was checking over their pilfered and altered equipment. Whatever he was doing to 'ensure their safety' would be ridiculously inadequate. Burns scarring Greg's arms and chest were evidence of that.

"Hey! Let's roll!"

The shout came from near the door and Sean turned to watch most of the group stand and follow the man called 'Wit' out the door.

Greg started collecting the essentials now, and Sean sat and watched, feeling close to a bout of hysterical laughter for some reason.

They were all going out to Cleora, a little town that was disturbingly close to Bernice and to a house that he owned and hadn't been to in months. Sal, an acquaintance of Greg's, had a house out there where they were having a party. Most everyone was going to drink, do a few drugs, and have a good time. Sean and Greg were going for the convenient location.

Sal's house was on the edge of a farm that had several tanks of anhydrous were easy to break into in the dark hours of night. Cutters for the locks, a couple dim flashlights, and a large fire extinguisher tank that had been modified for their use, and they would be set up for another week or so. It was dangerous illegal work, but it had to be done.


Sal's house was easy to find. Sound and light spilled from the surprisingly nice two-story so that any passerby on the gravel road out front would know that the partying had started. Sean climbed out of his piece of shit Mustang and watched as Greg gave him a meaningful nod before sidling away with his slut of the week.

One hour. That's what the silent message had been. They showed up and put in an appearance, make sure everyone saw them getting drunk and having a good time. Then they would sneak off to do their midnight task. If all went well they'd be back at the party within an hour or so, and no one would be any wiser, or aware of the virtual bomb that would then be in Sean's trunk in the form of a poorly contained highly flammable chemical.

Sean went to join a group clustered around a keg at the side of the house to wait, still feeling the euphoric glow of his most recent injection.


Greg cushioned the ice-cold tank with a blanket to keep it from rolling around, and then closed the trunk. He gripped Sean's forearm and they both grinned at the completion of their job.

"That was too fucking easy, man," Greg said as they headed for the slightly less rowdy house. "We'll have to come visit Sal more often."

Sean was lighting a cigarette. "She's got a good location here," he said, looking around the dark yard. "Be nice if we had a place this private."

Greg nodded, seeming lost in his thoughts, or dreams of having such a private place for their cook.

"Well, I gotta take a piss. Go find that bitch you're fucking and have some fun."

Greg's face immediately split into a grin. "Yeah, she's got a mouth like a vacuum. Got lucky to be there when Jerry dumped her last week."

Sean listened as if he cared. "Just be careful. You don't know what else has been in that vacuum."

Greg laughed, obviously not caring about the risk of whatever disease she might carry. "See ya lata. Go find yourself a lay."

Sean nodded, heading down the hall toward where he hoped a bathroom was, leaving Greg behind.

The bathroom was full. Several gossiping women could be heard inside, and several more were waiting to enter. He saw that no guys were in line and figured that all of them had opted to just go out back and water the yard. On his way back through the house he stopped at the steps, and after only a moment of consideration headed up to the dark second story.

He needed to take a piss, but what he wanted to do most was wash. He hated knowing his skin was coated with some sort of noxious chemical.

Enough light filtered through the windows and up the stairs to allow him to see. Reflections glinting off surfaces through an open door led him to the bathroom and he thankfully closed the door and released a sigh as he finally got to relieve himself.

The house had looked decent from the outside. He'd have guessed it was well kept and neat, but inside there was the unmistakable air of neglect. Dust or filth coated most everything. The bathroom was nasty with built up scum and smelled of use with no sanitation.

He didn't care. He lathered his arms to the elbow, and then bent to rinse beneath the lime and scum crusted faucet. Feeling a hundred times better, he reached for the towel only to wrinkle his lip and let the soiled cloth fall from his fingers. After a brief search he found clean towels in the cabinet and used one of them instead.

As he dried his arms and then lifted the now damp towel to his face he found himself staring at his reflection and he stilled. He barely recognized himself anymore. In a few short months he'd lost nearly a quarter of his weight, most of it the bulk that he'd been so proud of. With no time or energy to work out he'd slowly wasted away. The roundness to his face was gone, the bones and angles standing out in relief beneath his skin. His eyes appeared sunken in and dark, his skin was pale, almost sickly looking. To himself he looked dead. His reflection saddened him in some ways, but it was more like an echo of emotion. Eyes too bright to be naturally lit stared back at him, seeing the sorry state he was in, but not really linking it to anything, not the danger of more drugs, not the sadness of how he once had been.

The sound of a voice caught his attention and he instinctively stepped towards the door and shut off the light in one fluid motion. He cracked the door a mere inch and listened.

A voice, raised, but still hushed in a way that made him think the owner didn't want to be discovered could be heard somewhere down the hall. A soft light spilled out of a door standing half open.

"You will stay in this damn room and shut the fuck up!"

Sean's brow wrinkled at what sounded like a slap. Against his better judgment he crept closer, then past the door, listening, curiosity and an ingrained sense of duty urging him to find out what was going on.

"I have a house full of people. I don't need to be up here with you. Now get your fucking ass to the bathroom." A pause filled with the soft sound of crying.

"And you had better not wet your damn bed again. I get so fuckin' tired of cleanin' up after you."

Sean stepped back further into the shadows as the door opened. He watched in a sort of transfixed awe mixed with sympathy as a little girl appeared. She was dressed in an oversized shirt, hanging to her knees like a nightgown. Even in the dark he could see her long hair hanging down her back, the shine disturbed with what looked to be tangles.

She didn't see him. Her head was down, her hand up to hold her cheek, where he assumed she'd been hit. She turned away from him down the hall and walked silently toward the bathroom. The small sound of a sniffle was all he heard before she stepped inside.

Then he was shrinking further back as the woman that had been with her stepped out. She also turned away down the hall without seeing him, allowing him to release a small indrawn breath.

It was Sal. He'd spoken briefly with her earlier. It had just been out of respect because the party was being held at her house. She'd been drunk, smoking a hit of crank, and surrounded by friends. He'd thought at the time that she looked like she'd be a bitch, but he hadn't been around her long enough to say for sure. Now he watched her stalk to the bathroom door and shove it open.

"Get back to your room. I'm not coming back up here. You had better make sure to keep out of sight. That's all I need is for one of these drunk bastards to be messing with you."

She hesitated for a moment, and then was stalking down the hall, and then down the steps, calling out to someone at the bottom before she was even out of sight. Sean's eyes returned to the bathroom door, still open, light spilling out into the hallway.

He knew he should walk away. This was none of his business. For certain there were thousands of kids across America getting the same sort of treatment. He was doing his part to help. By cleaning up the drugs he was keeping mothers from getting high on crack and smacking little girls around. But even though he knew it was true, telling himself these things didn't make him feel any better.

Thoughts of Stacey intruded his overactive mind for the first time in what felt like weeks. For months her memory was like a dark shroud that he wore, invisible, ignorable by even him, but still making itself felt at every moment.

Stacey had always wanted children, had always planned that some day they would get around to being parents. But they'd waited. His job kept him away so much that it had just seemed too much trouble.

Kids were great, as long as they weren't his. At least that was how he'd felt. Now he was ashamed that he'd thought that way. How sad had it made Stacey for him not to want kids? How alone had she felt? He knew she would have been a great mother. At times she treated him like the kid he sometimes acted like, chastising him for doing something stupid. And she'd always been patient. So damn patient that it had been annoying at times.

And to think that there were women out there, like Stacey had been, longing to be mothers. They'd most likely be great parents just out of gratitude if nothing else, while little kids were being beaten and neglected by parents who didn't deserve the honor. The unfairness was maddening. And the children were the ones to suffer. Innocent victims that didn't know how to defend themselves.

Sean stepped forward, not knowing what he intended to do, or why he was doing it. It would only complicate his task. He had a mission here, and it wasn't to comfort little girls in the dark when mommy was the monster. He knew he was in no condition to give comfort even if he wanted to. To her he was one of the bad guys, just a cranked-up junkie at her mom's party.

The light coming from her bedroom caught his erratic attention. He turned and stared into the dimly lit room, transfixed by the small bed and furniture. Dolls and other toys, a princess poster on the wall. He knew nothing of little girls or what their rooms would look like, but he got the feeling that this one was particularly bare.

There were no books, no pictures, no stuffed bears or other animals. These things jumped out at him and he assumed they must be important if his stupored mind had noted them. Who read bedtime stories to her? Didn't kids like that sort of thing? And didn't kids sleep with a lovey or whatever? One poster on the wall, one small dresser, a little bed with one thin blanket, and one small toy box, open to show that it was only half filled. Each meager thing drew his attention and saddened him further. A cardboard box had the rude markings of windows and doors drawn on it. Three Barbie's sat inside eternally smiling blankly at each other. A small basket of little doll clothes was just visible at the back of the box, obviously hidden. He almost smiled, the value of the treasure unmistakable for the effort to conceal it.

"Hello."

Sean jerked at the whispered word. He snapped his head around to look down at the little face looking up at his. She held a washcloth in one hand, her distraction allowing it to lower from her face and the red mark on her cheek. Could her eyes get any bigger?