baker , lucas

Looking in the mirror at such lifeless eyes, reality was setting in at what he has become. Was this his reality? Because nothing felt real anymore when he was sober. He met his own cold, icy blue eyes and just came to the realization, Luke didn’t want to die, he just wanted to disappear—hide in apartment—until he felt good again. And if he’d disappear all he could wonder if they’d miss him or what he did for them. These withdraws, the comedowns—they weren’t just bad days. They were seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks that it felt like the world was crumbling beneath him, burying him in the debris; everyone watching Luke Baker self-destruct before their eyes; settling the blame on teenage angst. But what would have been easier, was being honest. Maybe had he told someone outside Imogen and Dallas and all his other friends who knew about his problem or at least his usage and didn’t do anything to stop him, maybe he wouldn’t be here right now. Maybe he wouldn’t be on his bathroom floor, compact mirror, plastic straw, right hand clenching the recently sharpened razor blade breaking down his rocks. 

The cravings didn’t start all at once. It happened without him noticing, but it happened, and when it did–Luke drowned in it. He had tried other drugs, booze, weed, even steroids, but then… Then he tried coke, and nothing else mattered anymore. The world made sense. They said it only takes one time, Luke never believed it. There was no way, but they were right.

He felt okay, most days, but then it hits him. Everything he was hiding from; the self-doubt, the guilt, the pain all came flushing back. Every word and action felt like it was drenched in regret, frustration, and uncertainty; and there was no place louder than your mind. Luke couldn’t remember if it was life or the drug that broke him, nowadays he thought he was never together in the first place. It’s always just been this way.

And this time–Luke wanted to take sobriety seriously. He wanted to recover, but then he remembered how at peace, how calm, how quiet letting go was. Sinking into himself and letting the coke take over. Luke knew one thing all too well, but the time you’ve thought about relapsing, you’ve already lost. It was easier, everything was easier. Things felt real whenever he was high. Things with Fiona were good then, he was a better brother to Becky then, he was a better everything when he was high. But when he was sober, he was a lot more honest and caring. He tried sobriety, but every night he stayed up restless, sniffling, fiending. Luke loved being high, the only thing he hated was that he couldn’t stop.

His lines were small, match stick length, but he needed it stronger. He needed a bigger rush. Luke knew he was supposed to stay with the same size throughout the session or he was gonna build too big of a tolerance and not get any higher.

Yet a part of him knew that that wasn’t going to happen.

And when he began to breathe that cut up white powder in, when he hit his nose in just the right spot, he was suddenly weak in the knees. Luke had to push all the negativity out of his mind. He was already a few lines in and there was nothing telling him to stop. A gram gone and a new one being chopped up. He had bought about seven grams, planning to even them out through the week, one for each day. But that plan quickly went out the window once he begun and the white powder clouded his mind. Maybe if he did a few more lines, everything would go back to normal, maybe everything would feel real again. And over time, it was all he wanted. That feeling of nothingness. That sensation of feeling something. An oxymoron, but something that only made sense when you’re flying.

A part of him was protesting within himself not to build his lines, but he knew he needed it to maintain his high. All he knew was that he needed it right now. Snorting the lines, his nose being on fire, the numbness taking over the front of his face. It was an all too familiar feeling that he loved. Even as his body was protesting, he continued with more lines. The redose times went from two every hour, to four every 30, to one in each nostril every 15 minutes. Anything to avoid the eventual comedown. With cocaine, the party stopped a long time before Luke was fully addicted. But truthfully, it never was partying. He was high, but it wasn’t fun. His life was fully consumed by his addiction; when the night turned to day he was trapped in the brutal cycle of blowing his money and blowing out his septum.

This wasn’t a party; this was a fucking nightmare.

Right now, Luke didn’t want to be okay. He wanted to fall apart, wanted to stop trying. His sponsor was right; people tend to go back to the things that have been killing them when they no longer remember how to be alive. And Luke was ready fall right back into the one thing that made him fell alive. His life might have just been a bunch of maybes, but one thing was certain, he was never going back to sobriety. This was all he was and all he’d ever be. Sports. Religion. Family. None of that matter anymore. And in the back of his mind he knew that all along, but it was easier to blame the addiction than his actions.

But once he went down to his opening his third gram, an overwhelming sense of dizziness washed over him. Standing, Luke wobbled a bit, stumbling as he leaned on his counter for support. His heart went from beating at a thousand miles a minute to a snail’s pace. Luke’s chest weighed him down, feeling heavier and heavier by the moment. It was as if everything in his body went numb and all he could feel was the beating in his chest.

You never think that last time is the last time. You think there will be more, you think you’ll have forever–––but you don’t.

All the air around him began too thin and though he reached his goal of total numbness, in the distance he could feel the waters rising. The undertow in his body was bringing harsh currents of breathlessness and terror pushing and pulling him in. He was beginning to drown. The lights seem to flicker and flickered until the room turned cold. Everything around him stood still, but a voice continued to linger: one more line, one last time. The music he once heard blasting was now just white noise as the silent tension between his addiction and his mind grew. The voice growing stronger and stronger.