the grrl who went no where-a short story

Sitting with a cold cup of coffee- no sugar, I ran out of that weeks ago- I ponder. I ponder my life, how it got to this point. Perhaps you don't care about any of this, and why should you? Lemme introduce myself, my name's Nova- the name says it all "no go." I'm just another mediocre 26 year old recent graduate [such potential they said all through school] who has no hope left. Before me on the barren floor of my empty apartment sits a half-finished short story, a blank sheet of paper, a stack of bills and final notices I have no means of paying, and my new best friend- a shiny Smith and Wesson Model 36 revolver. A month, or even a week ago, I would be desperately combing through every help wanted ad in print and online. But seemingly a hundred applications and resume submissions later, an empty wallet and accompanying empty fridge and stomach have all but quelled my will to keep searching. Please don't get the wrong impression, I wasn't always a desolate sack of shit; instead, I slowly slid down a mountain of life and got bogged down in the quagmire at the bottom. Not until it was much too late did I even realize that I was in trouble.

Guess that would be my life's refrain: not until it was too late did I realize anything was wrong, be it in financial difficulties, relationships problems, or my own loss of sanity. Even in times past when I had gotten into trouble with booze or drugs, somehow I was always able to pull myself back out, past the point of no return for many other fellow addicts. Granted the process had been almost impossible at times- be it living on the streets or detoxing off of alcohol or heroin all alone in a motel room, but nonetheless I managed to do it. Guess all those experiences gave me a false sense of capability. Truly, I bought the line that if I set my mind to it, anything could be accomplished.

Thus, dream big I did. In my youthful ignorance, I began building a life and a home with what I thought to be my perfect life's partner; believing us capable of living happily ever after. Four year's later the fairy tale came crashing down around my feet. As any self-respecting writer would, I began revising my life as though it were just another draft of a story. Another two years came and went as I changed the plot line, outlined more clearly the anticipated finale, added some new characters while letting others go, and even moved my life story's setting. But as time continued its relentless march forward, my newly revised fairly tale went awry, again! Quickly my Rockwell picture perfect life began showing cracks- deep fissures that resulted in friends and my significant other turning into Machiavellian villains and enemies. Through it all, I stubbornly donned the blinders and plodded along in college, my one sole source of stability. Unfortunately, by graduation day, my life resembled nothing of its anticipated form or former incarnation.

Add a few more months of jumping from one disaster to the next, with another failed attempt at domestic bliss, and I find myself here- alone, utterly broke and broken, hopeless, desperate, and disconsolate; I'm here with no will left to live and most certainly no trust in any other person, nor any trust in that fleeting disaster that our civilization deems love. Funny that today, of all days, I'm still checking my email, still making a few last call-backs about my applications. My last futile attempt to find some hope, some fleeting and small light in the darkness of this utter tunnel turns up nothing. Zip. Zero. Not that it would have done much good at this juncture. My car, like me, gave up its ability to go two days ago, I think it was; even if it could, a lack of gas would certainly impede my progress towards making it to an interview. No friends, no public transportation, nothing of value left to sell or pawn. Hell, aside from those things I mentioned earlier, my apartment contains exactly one coffee mug, one pen, the remaining crumbs of a 20-bag of heroin and an 8-ball of cocaine, and a few disposable bits of paraphernalia. Aha! I hear you exclaim… your condemnation of me as a worthless junky I feel sitting here. You're even accusing me of wasting my money on drugs when I could have bought food or gas or tried to pay a bill. But you would have judged wrong… for I spent absolutely no money to procure the little baggies of powder on my floor. Shall I tell you that story in an attempt to preserve the last, smallest shred of integrity I have left in these final moments?

Once upon a time we'll call four days ago, something clicked in my head that I couldn't do this thing called living anymore; at least not the way I had been over the last few months. With nothing but despair in my heart and manic thoughts in my brain, I hopped in my car and drove to the "shadier" side of town, an area I hadn't visited in my three years of sobriety. Having been absent so long, I didn't know where to go or what exactly I was trying to do. I merely went with the knowledge that 1) anything and almost everything can be found being sold outta a trunk of a car in this neighborhood and 2)gang turf wars were fairly common around here. Even if I couldn't find a gun to shoot myself, I hoped I could be at the wrong place at the right time- then maybe I wouldn't have to pull the trigger myself. Alas, unlike the constant stories of violence and street warfare our local media portray daily about this area, all was still and quiet on the "bad" side of town. Three hours of aimless nighttime wandering around on foot acquired nothing more than a street corner conversation with a hooker named Bubbles while we smoked a cigarette. Disheartened, I began to make my slow trudge back to my parked car. Midway through my trek, on a dimly lit side street, a voice distinctly called my name from a darkened, half-collapsing porch. With momentary visions of an serial rapist or killer flooding what should have been the logical part of my brain, but having no fear or anything left to lose, I turned in the direction of the voice, peering into the inky shadows to find a body that the call came from. Cautiously, the figure of a former friend (well as much a friend as any former dealer could be called such) emerged into the sickly, dim yellow haze of the sole street lamp.

"Still got that tight lil' ass and no tits I see, Nova." Big D. greeted in his usual manner. "Thought that was you that walked past a while ago. What the fuck you doin' on this side of town alone at night? Lil' girl like you could run into some big trouble." His eyes held mine the entire time, searching for answers my mouth was reluctant to give.

"I already got trouble, Big D. The psycho-stalker kind of trouble…thought I might find something down here to here to help make me feel safe enough to sleep at night again." I shrugged and lied to him, leveling my gaze right back into his as I spoke.

Weighing my words and measuring my appearance, he took a long, thoughtful drag off his Newport. Finally, with a loud exhalation of smoke and a grunt of agreement he teased, "Yeah, I thought you looked a bit rough. C'mon inside. We should talk." With his burly arm around my over-burdened shoulders, he ushered me up the broken stairs and into his cluttered den. After a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and idle prattle, I began to weave a woeful tale for him of intrigue, love, lust, obsession, and dangerous jealousy. After I was finished, we sat silently smoking for a few moments.

"How much you got?" he finally asked me.

I tossed a wad of cash, my last $150, on the face of a buxom blond porn star adorning the cover of magazine on his table. He responded by pulling out a mirror from under the sofa we sat on, and meticulously cut out three lines of coke for each of us. Without a word, he ran upstairs, returning a few minutes later to lay a small revolver on the table next to the cash.

"That should help your situation." D. nodded towards the gun. "But listen, and listen good—you don't know where that came from, anything happens, anything at all… get rid of it as quick as possible. That piece there…"

"I know nothing, D. I don't wanna know anything." I interrupted. "Thanks, man, you always did take care of me. It was lucky I ran across you tonight." I smiled as genuinely as I could muster while sliding the small gun in my pocket.

The better part of the next hour was spent shooting the shit, snorting blow, and playing that addictive guitar video game. After sharing a thick blunt that sent me and my sobriety straight into the stratosphere, D. disappeared again, this time returning with a sly grin. He handed me a soda with his right hand while opening his left directly in front of my face. At the very sight, I almost cried.

"Dude, fuck you dude, you ain't even right." I slurred. "You know I ain't got nothing left, no more money left. I just gave you everything I have left in this world, 'cept my car." I whined and shook my head back and forth.

"Look here, lil' ma, you got some shyt goin'. I feel ya, I do… I've been there too." (I expectantly waited for the catch, the hook he was going to cast out to me)

"I don't want your car… but ya know I've been hooking ya up for years… always were one of my favorites. (Here entered his wandering, lecherous gaze.) So how's about ya hook a brotha' up for once with a lil sum'in' I've been wanting for a long minute now. And don't give me that shit that you're a goddamn rug muncher, 'cuz that ain't what I wanna hear right now."

As his words dropped so did his fly, revealing his scarily large, engorged penis. Shock, anger, frustration, and a myriad of other emotions went whirling through my inebriated brain. All that subsided the second the gun in my pocket pressed against my thigh. Nothing much mattered anymore, my existence would soon be at a miserable end. Did it matter now if I died as a gold star lesbian or a fucking smack whore? What dignity would I have left when a coroner wiped my celebrated mind off the bathroom wall? So why not this now? Thus, with a fiend's determination, I dropped to my knees and gave my first blow job. With a dejected detachment, I let Big D. fuck me on his ratty sofa. (Again another first… but hey, even if he was horribly rough and hurt me in more ways than one, at least he was gentleman enough to wrap it up!)

When finally D. had his fill and collapsed on the recliner, I gathered the few remaining shreds of self-respect along with my "pay" and stumbled back to my car. Taking a moment during the drive back home to absorb all that had happened in those preceding hours, it didn't seem like that much of a loss. Sure, I demolished three years of sobriety; but at least I had enough stuff to attempt to go out in one final glam rock-esque binge—if that didn't work, I did get that shiny bit of steel tonight!

If there had been any last glimmers of hope for me to keep plugging on, they disappeared when I pulled into the parking lot and the transmission from my beloved car dropped. Yep, I thought, definitely past the point of help, past the point of no return. Dragging my weary body up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, I closed and locked the door behind me. Somehow I found the strength to begin the methodical preparation of my acquired drug bounty. [Which, by the way, with any mercy from the cosmos, would end in a painless overdose.] The night slid into an overcast dawn and eventually gave way to a gray, soupy afternoon. All the while, I steadily and silently vacuumed both powders up my nose, line by line… bump by bump. Apparently, years of clean living hadn't lowered my once-infamous high tolerance- even when mixing the upper with the downer! During my binge, I lost feeling in my body; I lost control of my thoughts; I lost any concept of time; from time to time I even lost consciousness briefly… but I still couldn't lose the one thing I was aiming for- my life. Upset that this attempt was failing miserably, fueled by the volume of smack and blow coursing my brain and blood, I began playing with the revolver- spouting and reenacting every cheesy line from every Western, Crime, or Spy movie I ever saw. During this maniacal haze, one sober thought swept over me- I don't have any bullets!! Shit! Even worse, I don't have the means to get any!! FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!!!!! Frantically, I began to tear up the remains of my skeleton apartment in a vain attempt to find a bullet by force of sheer will power and distressed need. But being a former anti-gun activist, there was obviously no bullets to be found. Frustrated and angry to the verge of tears, I opened the barrel of the revolver. The fates must have been merciful, for there in the chamber before me was one solitary bullet. Yet another line in celebration was it then apparent: I couldn't put any more anything up my nose! Dammit! No where close to what I supposed an overdose to feel like, nor messed up enough to pull the trigger without second thoughts, I began to do what used to be the unthinkable for me; I smoked each in turn! Sometime late in the evening of my big binge, I finally collapsed; only to wake up the following night (I think) naked on the floor amid piles of bile and vomit. So much for my glamorous last call!!

The after-effects and come-down, I won't bore you with. Suffice to say, that at that point I was beyond ready to die struggling through a hell of my own construction. During those long, agonizing hours when time seemed to stand still, my phone rang for the first time in over a week. The cheery voice of my friend [and former girlfriend] greeted me. In an effort to keep from breaking down over the phone and blabbing about what I was attempting to do, I kept the conversation limited and focused on her. As we were wrapping up our brief chat, she spoke words of encouragement in an attempt to remind me that there was always something to be hopeful about in this messed up life. She hung up saying, "I love you."

That was the final drop that broke my dam; months of repressed emotions and tears came rushing forth in one of those torrential cries that feels as if one's very soul is flooding out tear by swollen tear. Several hours and a few naps later, I rummaged around for the last sheet of paper in the apartment and made one last ditch attempt to find a reason to abort my suicidal plans. Twenty-four hours and a few more sobbing fits later, the paper is still in front of me on the floor, as blank as the day before. At least now, those few remaining friends can't accuse me of not trying to find something to live for.

It's dusk now, the witching hour… I've been caressing the revolver and spinning the chamber for an hour now. I'm empty, free of fear, free of hope, free of regret… just a hollow being taking up space in an over-crowded world. So this is it—no more feeble attempts, no turning back. I load the bullet in the chamber and raise the barrel to my temple, but I feel nothing. I'm not crying, not maniacal… just calm. "One" I count to myself inhaling deeply…"Two" I exhale… and…

"WAIT! WAIT… WAIT… WAIT… WAIT!!!!" My brain screams at me, "I finally came up with a reason; you don't have to do this!"

I'm giggling, a distressingly crazy laugh that quickly grows into side-splitting guffaws. Dropping the gun to the floor, I continue laughing with tears streaming down my cheeks and look at what my hand has written. There in a shaky script, barely legible on the paper is one single line under the heading that says simply:

My Reasons To Live


1. need to finish the final harry potter book and finish the series!

Granted, it's not the most philosophical or even sane reason to not kill myself, but its something… the something I was hoping for. Undoubtedly, I may very well just be back to that dark hopelessness that I started, but for right now, I have a purpose- go to the library around the corner and get a copy. Turning over the paper, something I hadn't done before, I find a faint number written in pencil labeled merely "Helpline." Well now I have step one and two. The twilight is fading the dawn will come soon!

{Written September 2007}