The Fix

by Molly Rose Morrissey

Morning. Wake up. Wipe the dried vomit from my mouth. Sit up. Pounding headache. Look around. Find out where I am. Stand up. Don’t fall. Keep my balance. Search the place for loose change. Find an exit. Don’t throw up, they let you crash here. Search. Run for the door. Finally outside. Vomit.

I’ve been homeless since my sister threw me out.

“I can’t deal with your shit no more, Amber. I ain’t no godamn babysitter; I got my own shit to fucking deal with.”

Just like that. I’m twenty-six. I’m an alcoholic. I now wander the streets.

<<<<<<<<<<

I need my fix. With newfound purpose, I walk down the mall strip. The sun burns my shoulders. My hands are shaking. All I can think about is that first sip: the sudden warming of my stomach, the idea that things will get better becomes possible.

Walking past Joe’s Liquors, I casually look around for men who will help me. I approach the barren and sun-bleached parking lot. My feet hurt. Godamn these fucking heels. I gaze at my reflection in the window of a beat up truck. Ugly. Pulling out my makeup, I try to distract myself from the reflection that I don’t recognize. My hands are shaking more violently now. How did I get to this point? Stop. Don’t think about this bullshit. Get the job done.

I smear the red lipstick over my lips and reapply mascara until my lashes become flakey. I let my hair down. This will do; I just need my fix. Pulling up my skirt just a bit, I saunter back to Joe’s, swiveling my hips from side to side, trying to appeal to the men that are around the store. I saunter over to a middle-aged man with a beard and a backwards baseball cap. He’s leaning against the stucco of the old building; his eyes are blood-shot and glazed over. He’s my guy.

“Hey stranger,” I say, “and how you doin’ today?”

He looks at me now, a smile creeping up around the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. Shit. Maybe not.

I try again, “What’s a hot, young guy like yourself doing at Joe’s so early in the mornin’?” I come closer to him and brush the hair off my shoulders.

“Nothin’,” he replies, “I’m just waiting for my buddy to come. We was supposed to a gone huntin’ this morning, but he ain’t shown yet.”

I smile, “Well you wouldn’t mind gettin’ me something inside Joe’s now would ya?”

“I don’t do no favors for no one unless I get something myself.”

Jackpot. “I can help you.”

<<<<<<<<<<

20 minutes later and I have my booze. I twist off the cap and pour the burning liquid down my throat. I drink to forget what I just did, the images of the man with the beard and the favors I did for him start to fade. All of my memories become fuzzy around the edges. The parking lot becomes surreal. I feel dizzy. Drink more. Down the hatchet. Pound it. A little bit more. Don’t remember. Don’t feel. Don’t think. Just drink more.

I get up but stumble. Maybe I’ll just lie down for a bit. Yeah, that sounds nice. I lay back until my head hits the cement. Mmm, the sun feels good. I’m just going to rest here. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do; just close my eyes…

<<<<<<<<<<

A blaring horn wakes me up. What the fuck? Remember where I am. Get up. No sunlight anymore. Just darkness. Shit. Joe’s Liquors glows from across the parking lot. I feel sick, but nothing comes out. Reality sets in. I cry. Stop. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Drink again. It will make you feel better. I reach for the bottle, but it’s empty. Feeling eyes on me, I search the dark parking lot but find no one. I’m getting scared. Don’t be a baby. Get up.

I make my way across the parking lot, hoping to get rid of the nasty hangover and start over. Past the neon sign reading Joe’s Liquors, turn left, keep walking.

“Hey pretty lady.”

I stop. The voice is coming from behind me. Maybe I won’t have to look too far for my next fix. I smile as I turn around. He’s old and is wearing a tight, black shirt. His potbelly sticks out from the bottom. He reminds me of someone. Something about his smile makes me feel all shaky. It’s lopsided and dark. He stares at me with feigned nonchalance, acting as if I don’t mean anything to him. An image appears from the murky corners of my mind: Pete, our neighbor, walks out of his house next to ours on Scenic Road. He smiles, matching this guy, and his hands, yeah that’s it, those claw-like hands, the hands that—stop.

“Do you talk, sweet thing? C’mon, how you doing baby?” he asked again.

“Yeah I talk,” I say, forgetting Pete and now focusing on the stranger in front of me, smiling as I remember my need for free alcohol, “and I’m doing mighty fine now that you’re here.” Sometimes these lines make me sick.

His smile widens, “Well you better be,” he says playfully. “Now what can I do to make my baby feel better, huh?” He reaches toward me, his arm extending like a mechanical toy clip that picks up stuffed teddy bears at the bowling alley. But I don’t want his claws on me, so I pull back just an inch. His smile fades. “Now what’s the matter, huh?” he questions, his tone revealing a gruffness that wasn’t there before.

“Nothing at all. Shit, I just like to feel good, baby, don’t you?”

He smiles again. I always know how to coax them. “Yeah I know what you mean. I like to feel real good too.”

His last words stick in the air as if caught in a thick syrup. Something about him makes me feel all weak, but not in my knees like a high-school crush, more like a weakness that knocks you down and won’t let you get back up -- a weakness that penetrates through every muscle in your body like a swirly darkness. Get out.

“Hey man, listen, I know a lot about feeling good, but unless it means getting a bottle, I gotta go.”

“I’ll get you your bottle soon enough sugar,” he says and reaches out again. This time I don’t move. Move. Leave. Get out of here. But I don’t, I let him grab me with those claws. “Just as long as you come here with me for just a sec’. That’s all I want, baby, just one minute with you.”

She is lying on the living room floor in a pool of her own blood. “Mommy, wake up. Mom?” Her eyes are shut, her hair clotted with blood. This is not the Mommy I know. I scream until I choke on my tears. I shake her. “Wake up!” But she doesn’t move. I hold her hand and don’t let go until the EMT’s take her away.

“Where you takin’ me?” I manage to ask, although now the weakness has covered me in a fog, and I can only feel his sweaty hand holding mine.

“Don’t worry, baby. Just c’mon. Just a little farther.”

We stop outside of a long, low to the ground, black car parked in the back of a laudromat. The air has weight to it, and I feel an electric buzzing that won’t stop. He opens the car door and motions for me to slide in. I notice a younger man in the driver’s seat. His muscles bulge through his orange shirt, and he has the engine running as if he’s been waiting this whole time just for me.

Claw pushes me into the front seat of the car and squeezes into my right. Now in between the two men, my mind snaps out of the fog it has been in. Shit.

“Hey, man, let me outta here. I got things to do.”

Claw’s voice becomes gruff. “Now you listen here, baby, you’re gonna do what I say, and I don’t want to hear nothing about it.”

Shifting into drive, the man in the orange shirt pulls out from the laundromat and heads west down the mall strip. My hands shake.

“Amber!” Jade squeals, tugging on my hair as I carry her on my back. I run faster as if nothing can stop us.

“We’re going to get out of here, baby girl,” I whisper, racing down our block, away from the mess of what our lives had become. This is it, I think.

Orange Shirt starts to drive faster, cutting across lanes without even turning his head. I need alcohol.

“Hey man, you got any booze?” I ask.

“Yeah sugar, I’ll give you some once we’re finished,” Claw sneers; Orange Shirt laughs quietly to my left. It’s then that I feel it. I recognize the cold metal that pokes my hip. Claw shifts slightly, and it pokes me again. A gun. Whatever haziness left in my mind clears completely, as I begin to panic. I’m not going to die this way. Think. Turning my head toward Claw, I give him a big smile.

“So,” I ooze, “what do you boys have planned for me?” I squeeze Claw’s thigh. His gruffness melts as he puts his hand over mine, “You’ll see.” he replies.

I kiss him, trying to position my body so that my right hand is ready to grab it. His chin is scratchy, but his mouth complies, twisting and morphing as it kisses back. I hypnotize him with my lips, slowly moving my hand lower and lower, tricking him.

“Mmm, baby,” he moans. I hear Orange Shirt whistle in the background. Not this time.

I am close to it now; I can feel the outline of his back pocket. Just a minute longer. My hands clasp the metal and in quick tug, I yank out the gun, breaking away from his wet embrace and point it directly at Claw.

“Motherfucker!” Claw shouts. “You give that gun back right now, bitch. You do not want to fuck with me!”

But I hold it even tighter; the gun gives me strength. I press it to his temple, “You better do what I say, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

“You bitch, put the gun down,” Orange Shirt says as he turns the steering wheel sharply to the right, pulling over into an abandoned, gravel lot. Cutting the engine, Orange Shirt grabs my hair and yanks it as hard as he can. My eyes water, but my firm grip on the gun does not move. Orange Shirt punches my side with his fist, his rings puncturing my skin. I give in to the pain just a little bit, loosening my grip on the gun. Claw swats at the gun, as Orange Shirt continues to jab his fist into my side. My hand is cramping. Fuck.

Claw suddenly grabs the tip of the gun, pulling down on the end as hard as he can. I resist his strength, but I can feel his power overtaking me. I pull the trigger.

BOOM.

“You motherfucker!” Claw shouts, grabbing his thigh.

I slam my heel down on Orange Shirt’s foot and reach over to open the car door. Pushing Orange Shirt out of the car, I slide out and stand up quickly over his sprawled body. I turn to look at Claw who’s bent over, the seat now covered in the deep red of his blood. Orange Shirt grabs my ankle, but I force his arm down, smashing my heel into his forehead. He screams. I run. Faster and faster, away from the car. Still holding the gun, I turn right at the end of the road. I have no idea where I am. A sharp pain is running up my side as I quicken my pace, adrenaline taking me swiftly down the road.

Looking down, I finally notice my shirt, which is saturated in blood. I pull it up to reveal my battered skin. Moving my hand down my side, I wince, feeling the deep cuts of Orange Shirt’s rings. Blood is leaking out quickly. I push my hand down firmly on the wound and continue to run. Streetlights appear; cars drive past. I notice I’m still holding the gun. The gnarled metal makes my stomach knot. Beginning to recognize where I am, I see the mall strip; the neon signs cast a pale glare. Get rid of the gun. I tuck it in the back of my skirt, as I walk behind the mall strip hoping to find a place to stash it. The metal is burning my skin. Claw’s hands feel as if they’re scratching my hip, tearing through me. Droplets of his blood shine off my legs. Finding a dumpster in the back of Raley’s Supermarket, I search to make sure no one is around. I nestle the gun deep into the trash, pushing it further and further down until I hear the clink of the metal against the bottom.

I have to get help. My cuts sting as the pain runs deeper through my body. What the fuck just happened? Running into the street, I hold my thumb up, desperately hoping that someone will pick me up. More blood trickles down my side. Come on, someone, please.

A champagne-colored town car pulls over. The driver, an older man with wavy, white hair, rolls down his window, “You okay there?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Hey, listen man, do you think I could get a lift to the nearest hospital? I got this pretty bad cut, and I think I’m gonna need some stitches.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, just as long as you don’t bleed on my seat. This here baby’s a brand new Lincoln. Pretty nice, eh?”

Relief pours over me. “Yeah,” I respond, as I open the door and gingerly slide in, my cuts tearing deeper as my body adjusts to a sitting position.

“Now what the hell happened to you?” he asks, his eyes drawn to my blood-covered legs and shirt.

“I fell off my bike a few miles back,” I respond, the pain so immense I don’t bother with a good lie.

“Well let me at least put a towel down. You’re bleeding on my leather!”

<<<<<<<<<<

“This is going to be about ten or more stitches,” the doctor says, his eyes bored and tired.

“I’ve never gotten stitches before. Do they hurt?” I ask.

“After I apply a local anesthetic, the area will be numb. You will only be able to feel pressure and heat. Now, Ms…Barras,” he says, glancing at my chart, “I’m a bit concerned about the amount of blood you lost through your lesions. I want to run a few blood tests just to make sure your RBC count and hemoglobin level checks out.”

“Okay,” I say, but he has already walked away. I lay back onto the crinkly paper covering the bed trying to figure out what he means. Images of Claw and the gun run through my mind. I want to cry, but I can’t. I’m too tired. Closing my eyes I rest, my mind unable to make sense of what happened any longer.

<<<<<<<<<<

“Ms. Barras?”

I wake up, quickly adjusting to a woman standing next to my bed. Her eyes look concerned. Shit. How long was I sleeping? I feel weak.

“Ms Barras, hi, I’m Doctor Windsor. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, I guess. Just tired.” Her eyes say it all. I want her to tell me what’s wrong.

“So we ran some tests just to make sure you’re doing well, and we detected a high level of hCG in your blood work.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, my pulse quickening, unsure if I my heart can handle any more devastation.

“It means you’re pregnant ma’am,” She responds.

<<<<<<<<<<

“Bye Janet,” I say, passing by my favorite nurse.

“You take care Miss Amber, honey.” Janet responds, giving me a hug and a pat on the back.

I push open the glass doors of the hospital, breathing in the crisp, autumn air deeply. It has been two and a half months since Claw and the gun. Once I found out I was pregnant, I was admitted into a detox program in the hospital, urgently recommended to me by Doctor Windsor.

“Take care, now,” a security officer says standing outside the doors.

I smile and make my way down the street. It feels weird, being alone outside again. Fear still rests in the pit of my stomach, but now there’s a bigger feeling that sort of blocks it out most of the time. It’s one I’m not familiar with. Dr. Rosen says I’ll get used to it soon enough, explaining over and over again how I didn’t have enough of it growing up or something. Now I’m not sure about the specifics, but it doesn’t matter, I still feel it. Especially when I press my hand down on the growing bump in my stomach and picture the little baby blooming inside of me, yeah there it is. It’s love.