Hedonist: Part One

“Travis!” I hear the voice say. “Wake up.”

My eyes are closed but I am awake. Cold, shaking, crying. Warm me, wrap me like a burrito in my first blanket. Give me to my mother. I open my eyes. I see a woman’s face. I have no idea who this is. I look down and see my body. God, I look fantastic. Chiseled chest. Ripped legs. I can see my chin beyond the tip of my nose, square, dimpled, hammered from concrete. I look down my arms. Left arm, perfect. My bicep forms a long oval even when my arms are relaxed, even when I’ve taken my entire stash of smack. My right arm looks strange though, purple at the hand, pale at the arm, but still the arm of a Greek statue. Even stranger is the shiny object sticking from my elbow, blurred from my vision. Oh, it’s the syringe. I see a long trail of maroon leading to my hand. It’s hard, sticky. It pools into my large, smooth palm. I palm my own life, sticky and mushy and maroon, dried and flaky at the edges. My stomach is what I expected. Washboard. A fucking 8-pack. It better be eight—my Ab Lounge and Ab Energizer is my life. I use that electric, pulsating belt so much I’m starting to develop a tick. Everything is perfect except the large purple spot on my stomach, above my naval. I put my hand on it. It’s hard and flakey. I pull. It starts to bleed. Shit. I’m going to feel that later. I notice the same kind of spots all over my stomach, my legs, and arms. Users call this “itchy blood.”

This has happened before. I will get over it. I have to go to work soon. I think. Do I work? I look at the clock. It’s 9:13. If I could remember anything, I would remember that I work for the biggest law firm on the West Coast. Which one? Wouldn’t you like to know. It would be stupid to lose a job like that. The woman that woke me walks into what looks like a kitchen. I yank the syringe out and put it into the aluminum can I cooked it in. I put the can into the shoebox next to my bed. Next to my anabols, my coke, my pot, my Magnum Trojans. I put the lid on and shove it under the bed. I take the belt wrapped on my arm and throw it into the open closet.

I lurch myself up from the bed and stagger into the shower in the bathroom. I notice the gold trimmed shower doors, the large Jacuzzi bath, and the walk in closet full of towels. What I don’t notice is the large porcelain toilet to my right, and I don’t notice it until my shin connects with it. After what I took, I’m lucky to feel anything at all, but this isn’t what I wanted to feel first. I think I scream so loud the neighbors must think I’m abusing someone, someone I used to love, someone who was close to me, someone I who I used to think is important, but not anymore, not after what they’ve become.

I turn the shower on to scorching hot. Steam fills the room. I walk in the shower. I love hot showers. I notice the various bottles and vials around me. I take the face peel and rub it on my face. You’re not supposed to use soap. It contains a thickening agent that will clog your pores. After a minute I pull the peel away. Next I use a micro-bead facial scrub containing crushed almond shells, rubbed on with an abrasive cloth. I do this every day. Finally, I wash my entire body with Lux, a beauty soap. When I wash my back I feel the side-effects from the anabol. Dozens of craters forming on my back and shoulders. Oh well, nothing a little laser resurfacing can’t fix. It will be the third time this month.

I walk out of the shower and wrap a Pima cotton towel around my body. I walk into the kitchen. I can see almost perfectly now. I better. I had LASIK complications, and had to redo the surgery. Best doctor on the West coast. I better see. During my journey to the kitchen I see my condo. My IKEA furniture. The fine art purchased from some old dead lady’s mansion. Everything I’ve worked for, my 6 years at Colombia, my investments in Google, Microsoft, ExxonMobil, everything immortalized in a painting, a chair, a carpet. I sit down at the breakfast nook. I finally see the mysterious woman that has been roaming my apartment. Oh, it’s Brandi.

If I could remember her, Brandi would be my fiancée for 2 years. Bleach blonde hair, blue contacts. Her body is painfully perfect. From her long and tan legs, painted toes, arched from the constant stress from high heels. Her Ultimo lingerie barley covers the top of her thighs. I can still see her. Well, I mean my favorite part of her. Her chest casts two large shadows from the light above her. If I could see the label on her bra it would say DD. That was her birthday gift, along with her rhinoplasty and microdermabrasion. I see her stomach, flat, ribs showing from the months of cocaine use. Don’t hook the woman you love on something like coke. It doesn’t end well. It makes me ache to see her rail thin, but I don’t ache anymore when my eyes lead up to her face. The skin on her face is perfect, porn star perfect. Smooth and flawless, worn gently from the hundreds of money shots taken to the face. At least I heard it’s good for your skin. Her lips, fat enhanced, sucked from her own ass. I’ll have to block that thought from my head the next time I kiss her. Her clear blue eyes meet my eyes.

“What time do you have to be at work?” Brandi says.

I say I don’t know.

“Do you know how much you took last night?”

I grunt and reach for the fridge. I pull out a bottle of Chardonnay. I slug as much as I can in one mouth full. The cotton mouth I’m getting from the stuff last night is unbearable.

“Are you hungry?” She says.

I say no.

“Neither am I.”

She reaches down and taps her Virginia Slim into her marble ashtray. Next to the ashtray I see breakfast; a bottle of Prozac and a cup of coffee.

“What are we going to do about this?” She points to her exposed ribs. “My body can’t take much more of this.”

I say I don’t know. We’ll think of something.

Even though her cheeks are as hollow as they are, I can still see a faint smile on her face. I lean in and kiss her sunken in cheek. My nose hits her cheek bone.

I walk into the room and into my walk in closet. I reach for the dark blue Armani suit and proceed to dress myself. I grab my Mulberry wallet and my keys. I see the Mercedes logo on them. I turn to see the clock. 9:47. Back in the kitchen Brandi is coughing and hacking. I see her nose leak life. Warm and oozing and thick. I walk over and rub my thumb underneath her nose and catch what life I can. I lied about thinking of something. I don’t think there is anything I can do.

She sees her life and begins to freak. I have to hold her, cold, shaking, crying. Tell her it’s all right. Tell her I love her. Tell her we will go into rehab. Tell her I’ll stop buying that stuff. I know I won’t but it’s what she wants to hear. She sighs and sobs, sighs and sobs, she breaths deep and sobs again. I can see her tears on my suit. Not good. I have to keep myself from freaking as well. I pull her gently away and look her in the eyes.

I tell her I love her and I will always take care of her.

“I’m so scared.” She says, sobbing.

I tell her it’s okay. We’ll find a way. I won’t let her get hurt. We will always be together.

After a while I can hear her quiet down. Sobbing lightly and wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I got blood on your jacket.” She says.

Again I have to calm myself from screaming and making her nosebleed come back. I walk into my closet and find another suit and change completely. I see my bottle of Eau de Cologne. I almost forgot about that. I walk back into the kitchen and see her hunched over the sink. I wrap my arms around her flat stomach. She turns around and wraps her thin arms around my neck. I can smell her hair and I almost go back to those waves of euphoria.

I tell her I love her and I will see her later tonight. I don’t know if I will see her. I don’t know if she’ll take the rest of the coke and smack and OD in my bed. I don’t know if she’ll open up her veins in my bath tub from the pain she can’t take. I don’t know if she’ll pack her bags and go back home and I’ll never see her again. I don’t know this, but I think we’ll be okay.