The Wrong Side of Rock Bottom Read online

  THE WRONG SIDE OF ROCK BOTTOM

  Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Foor

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art: JMF PUBLISHING /Shutterstock

  This book is a written act of fiction. Any places, characters, or similarities are purely coincidence. If certain places or characters are referenced it is for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is not allowed to be offered for sale, discounted, or free on any sites by anyone other than JENNIFER FOOR. To reiterate: This book may ONLY be distributed by Jennifer Foor, the owner and Author of this series.

  DOWNLOADING EPUB COPIES IS A FRADULENT ACT.

  It is estimated that between 26.4 million and 36 million people abuse opioids worldwide, with an estimated 2.1 million people in the United States suffering from substance use disorders related to prescription opioid pain relievers in 2012 and an estimated 467,000 addicted to heroin. These addiction ruins lives, destroy careers, and tear families apart.

  This is just one of those stories.

  Chapter 1

  I close my heavy eyes and contemplate the indifferences I have regarding the plan I’ve made my with my semi-coherent wife. We need to get clean, that’s a necessary assumption. It has to happen. We can’t continue burning through every measly dime we can spare for a debauched fix. It’s disconcerting knowing we’re unable to care for our young daughter while we’re under the influence of opiates, or other illegal narcotics. While little Mila sleeps soundly in her crib, we’ve ventured into the darkness, again, all while knowing the risks and formidable result.

  How we got to this point is beyond my recognition. I’ve always been one to tread lightly when it came to casual using, yet I’m here now, lying naked on my mattress with my drug induced spouse. Etherly is laughing, her tiny proportioned body arching as the chemicals work their vicious magic. She’s so beautiful like this, her long brown wavy hair strewn across the white striped covered pillows, those brown eyes lost in a momentary lapse, carefree and without depression. This is the only time I get to see the woman I fell in love with, because when she’s sober, when she’s gone without for some time, she’s someone I no longer recognize. The withdraws have gotten worse, she’s lost, and the only way I know how to save her is to force her to stop.

  No one enjoys fighting, unless they relish in the making up part. In my case it’s more than that. I want more. I need to look into my daughter’s eyes and know I’m being the best person she deserves, not a derelict, who’d rather swallow down a few pills than deal with reality.

  Etherly doesn’t share my concerns. She’s never suffered for a day in her life, so it’s hard to convince her this is for the best.

  Our arguments could be avoided if she would give a damn for two seconds.

  It’s always about the money and the things we’ll probably never be able to afford. Guilt consumes me, because no matter how hard I work at trying to get my foot in the door with a good paying job, I’m pushed aside, cast away, or sometimes overlooked. I’m an endless disappointment, and on most occasions feel as if I’m the dealer, the enabler, constantly providing her a fix in order to keep us from fighting. It’s a rancorous cycle; one I’m not proud of.

  Working forty to fifty hours a week at an automotive service center isn’t exactly a dream job, but it’s steady and I’ve learned enough to make me feel productive. It’s another reason why I know it’s time to grow up and be responsible.

  Etherly walks through life with blinders. She assumes her parents will come around and go back to spoiling her with whatever she desires. She’s going to have the hardest time kicking the habit, having been the one to drag me into this lifestyle.

  Don’t get me wrong, my wife is a brilliant specimen, smarter than anyone else I know, funny at times, when her depression doesn’t get the best of her, but most importantly caring. She’d do anything for anyone if she could, all except for giving up her daily fix. I’ve noticed lately she’s been using as soon as she gets up in the mornings, which means she’s under the influence of at least something while being a mother to our daughter.

  I’m sick of this. I can’t glare into the mirror and not feel apprehensive regarding our situation. It’s wrong, disgraceful, and absolutely terrifying. I don’t want to lose Mila. God, I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to not have her in my life, especially knowing what I went through as a kid.

  My once straight and narrow upbringing has left me indifferent and frustrated. This isn’t how my grandmother, who raised me alone, would have wanted me to live. If she were still alive she would have found a way to convince me that Etherly was trouble. I’m glad she passed away before we met. Perhaps it was her death that led me down this vicious tunnel of convenience and discovery.

  I have to admit, I love the way it feels; the high, every limb in my body coming alive like electric pulses. I’m indestructible, content, and out of control all at the same time.

  It’s awakening, powerful, and perilous. People who’ve never tried it won’t understand. They frown upon the unknown, the possibility of seeking refuge in what they fear. With all good things that come into our lives, it’s temporary.

  Life isn’t black and white. It’s blue, a radiant shade of cobalt, whisking me to places I can only fabricate while high.

  The room is quiet. The above ceiling fan spins with an off balance annoying wiggle. A steady drip of water smacks against the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. The clock on the bedroom wall ticks a pattern as time slips away from us.

  One last high. We made it clear. I gave in and let this happen.

  We’d indulge in our favorite mix for one final hurrah. Tomorrow is a new day, where we’ll bask in the idea of being clean and on the right path.

  As the slow burning rush of toxins courses through my veins, I lose myself in a symphony of crescendos. The world remains spinning, while I float on a cloud of ecstasy, dormant and satiated. There are no longer responsibilities, consequences, or a worry of what might happen when it’s over. I’m captivated by this concoction of pills I’ve consumed, fading to a momentary path of nothingness.

  My body goes limp, and numb, then fills with a million different sensations again. The lids of my eyes weigh heavily as I struggle to remain coherent, albeit it’s only a matter of time before I fall victim to my own dismay. There’s a humming in my ears that prevents normal sounds from being distributed the way they should. As if to have locked myself in a plastic bubble, I’m under an invisible force field; a melancholy stronghold nothing can free me from.

  My will to fight is diminishing. I want to share this last experience with my wife, yet struggle to find reasoning in the simple task. My ability for self-control is a battle, because I’ve never been as tolerant as she is.

  The back of my hand reaches over to coarse across her smooth, almost glowing milky skin. She’s like a porcelain doll, so perfect and preserved. I take in the way she smells as my nose nears the nape of her neck. Long fingers skid through my short hair, though she’s unable to grab and pull due to the length. It was her idea to shave it, after a long night of Percocet’s, Xanax and alcohol.

  Her eyes are sagging as she struggles to connect with mine. As if it plays in slow motion, I capture a vivid scene as her fingers drags across my cheek. Her voice is muffled when words fill the room. “Fuck me, Rogan. I know this is what you want, baby. One last euphoric sexual rendezvous.”

  Instead of the opiates taunting me on a daily basis,
my real addiction stares me in the face, waiting for me to take the bait. She’s reckless and out of control, she’s unrestrained and a danger to herself and others, but she loves like no one else I’ve ever seen. When we fuck it’s full of passion, an earth shattering rush no pharmaceutical high could ever provide. She’s the most dangerous thing I could ever get involved with, but I can’t stop. I need her. I want her like I’ve never wanted someone. She gives me purpose; a family I’ve gone without for most of my life. Together we’re everything. The three of us. Hope. That’s what they represent for me. I couldn’t live without my girls. No matter what others think, we’re good people, who just happen to partake in activities others would frown upon. We’re not hurting anyone but ourselves, so they can piss off and mind their own business, like her pesky, well-to-do, hoity-toity parents.

  They’ve been a thorn in my side since the day I met their daughter, always trying to intervene and tell us what’s best, but at the same time threatening Etherly, going as far as cutting her off completely.

  They live a few towns over, in a waterfront community with a golf course, while we’re slumming it up, their words not mine, in a small country town with a total of one street light. The state of Maryland is funny like that. The rich live close to the poor but have nothing to do with each other. It’s like we’re plagued, not good enough to hang in the same circles, not that I’d ever want to. Every person I’ve ever met from that town makes my skin crawl. They’re fake, it’s as simple as that.

  It’s been six months since we’ve seen or heard from them, and only because I put my foot down and finally made my opinions known. I gave them hell after they said I was a no good piece of shit who could never give her anything but regret and a shit future. They called me a half-wit, a loser, who was raised by a single grandmother because no one else would want anything to do with me. They told me my mother walked out on me because I disgraced her; the constant reminder of my father being a monster right under her nose.

  I was too young to remember them, to recall the things my good old dad was accused and convicted of. My grandmother kept me sheltered from the truth until I was old enough to ask. I’d heard people talking in whispers as a child. I was aware there were secrets, but a part of me never wanted to know them. Having a constant hole in my heart where my own mother should have filled, left me bitter, cold, but mostly sullen and envious. I did okay in school, graduating with enough passing grades to make my grandmother proud I was able to earn a diploma. She died a week later of emphysema, leaving me with just enough money to bury her next to her late husband.

  The funeral was the first time I’d laid eyes on my mother in fifteen years, and the last time I’ve seen her since. She’d moved on, remarried, started over with a new family, one where I was a secret she never wanted to admit having.

  The rumors were true. What people said about my family, my whole childhood being a victim, it was all true.

  My father raped and brutally murdered an innocent fifteen year old girl. He held her captive for three weeks before the torture and sexual assault was too much for her young, inexperienced body to handle. I’ve been told that when my mother suspected him to be the perpetrator, he beat the shit out of her and put her in the hospital before authorities took him into custody. My grandmother explained to me that my mom left the moment she was released and she’s never tried to contact either of us again. She pretended that part of her life never happened, including me.

  I was raised by my father’s mother since the age of five. She cared for me and taught me love, but always from a pained soul. She was never a happy woman, because I guess in many ways she blamed herself for my father’s actions. To this day, I’ve never had any contact with him. It’s like I was expected to drop off the planet as far as both of my parents were concerned. If he sent letters, I never got them. I’m sure Gran would have kept them from me even so. She’s bitter. The mere mention of her son always caused her to freak out. She’d go into an undeniable state where she’d stay in bed for days crying.

  During those times I learned to fend for myself. I wanted to run away and start over like my mother, but Gran was sick. I owed her that much.

  Etherly’s love saved me. She came into my life like a wild exploding firework, and nothing has been the same since. It was time for me to tell her parents where they could put their two-cents. Things have been quiet since then. Etherly no longer wonders if they’ll show up to try to convince her to leave me. She knows I won’t allow it. My last words to them left nothing for the imagination. I was blatant and to the point.

  “If you try to contact us in any way, for any reason, I’ll fucking kill you.”

  In my defense, I was tired. Tired of being blamed for a past I never asked for. Tired of being compared to the father I never even knew. Tired of being liable for their daughter’s drug use. Tired of them assuming I’d never amount to anything. Tired of them wishing I wasn’t the father of their daughter’s only child. I could go on for hours about all the reasons they hate me. I could give details of the stories and lies they construed in order to convince Etherly she should leave me. One time they showed up with some online statistics notating the probability that I would want to rape and murder at some point. Who does that?

  I may have threatened them, but I’ve never harmed anyone in my life. I don’t steal or cheat. I very seldom lie, and only if it’s necessary to keep someone else from being burdened with the truth.

  They don’t want to know the truth about their daughter. They refuse to accept that she’s the mastermind in this undoing. They’re in denial, rather to blame me than Etherly for the destruction we’ve put forth. Neither of them want to know the kind of woman they’ve raised; a girl who likes danger, living on the edge, and pain. She craves it, sometimes to a point where I refuse to oblige. I’m her servant, but a man has to have limits. Those limits are the hard kind too. She likes sex too much. It fills some kind of void for her I’ve never understood. She’s also into pain as pleasure, like being choked, to the point of losing consciousness. She says it’s a different kind of rush. We’ve done it twice, and both times I freaked the hell out over it. The more I try to fight the urge to save her soul, the further in love I fall. I’m obsessed with her, to a degree that’s unnatural. I’m willing to do things that I’ve been taught were disgraceful, and I don’t even care. I wake up every single day wanting to make her happy; to give her everything I’m able to.

  My wife brings her lips close to mine, brushes them as she speaks. “Before I let you have me, there’s something else we need to do together.” She adjusts while clarifying. “Since you’re forcing this to be the last time, I want to go out with a bang, ya know?” Etherly rolls over and fiddles with the bedside table drawer. What she pulls out causes me to straighten and stare, wide eyed and bewildered. I’m alert, as if my high is suddenly dissipated. I’m no longer thinking about the rush, the eventual sex, or my stiff erection beckoning me between my legs. “Where did you get that?” I’m referring to the baggy, lighter, spoon, and needle that fills her left hand.

  She drags her top teeth over her bottom lip and snickers, shrugging. “A friend. Come on, aren’t you curious? It’s so much fun.”

  “That’s crack. We said this was our last time, babe. I’m not about to go down that road. Hell no! It’s not happening.”

  She retracts her bottom lip, giving me that pouty look she uses to get her way. “Just once. Let’s have some fun. One more last party, Rogan. It makes the sex phenomenal. Come on. For me?”

  I’m already high as a kite, and I know it. Imagining anything greater seems impossible. I shake my head and fight the urge to disappoint her. It’s going to be hard enough making sure we stick with the plan. “It’s a bad idea, babe. I don’t want to indulge in that kind of mistake.”

  She’s already pulling a rock out of the small plastic bag and sticking it in the spoon. I watch the hot flame of the lighter dragging across the underneath of the steel utensil. “I’m doing it without you, th
en, sissy.”

  “What if Mila wakes up and we’re incoherent?”

  “She’s not going to wake up. When is the last time that child got up in the middle of the night? She’s been sleeping full eight hours for the past year.”

  “She could get sick,” I indicate.

  “Whatever. I should have known you couldn’t handle it. Suit yourself. I’m doing it.”

  “Have you done this before?” I hate asking when I already know the answer. Etherly partied before we met. She’s familiar with every kind of drug and where to get them. All I’ve ever done is provide her with the cash to make it happen. This new venture of hers makes me curious as to where and when she acquired such substance, and if our daughter happened to be with her when she did. “Was Mila with you when you got this shit?”

  “No, of course not. What do you take me for? Becky brought it over this morning.”

  “Becky?” It’s a name from the past. They were best friends, but she started doing heroin and we both decided she wasn’t trustworthy when she was using. “She was here?”

  “Don’t give me that look. She just got out of rehab. It was left over and she couldn’t throw them away.”

  “So she thought bringing them into our home was a good idea?” My head is beginning to pound. A rush of angers fills me. My mood is crushed by this threat.

  Etherly shrugs while still watching the rock melt down to a liquid. “No, dumbass. She came by to apologize for her actions, ya know, part of the steps or something. Anyway, she mentioned they needed to be thrown away, so I told her I’d take care of it. You should see all the stuff she had. Pipes and a case of needles. I threw everything used away and just kept this one that was still in the wrapper.”

  This doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m scared shitless. Bad crap happens when people experiment with things they’re unfamiliar with. “I don’t want you to do this.”