The Last Alibi

87

Jason

1:20 P.M.

I stagger through my door and collapse onto the cold tile of my town house foyer. My stomach unleashes its contents, but there aren’t any contents, only bitter, sticky liquid in my mouth. I put my face down on the tile and try to catch my breath. The floor spins and jukes beneath me.

Something they don’t tell you: The first days of withdrawal are not the hardest. It’s the time after those first few days, when your mind and body are settling in on a new reality-that the fun candy isn’t coming in like it used to-that the mind and body decide to tell you what they think of that decision.

Shauna comes rushing down the stairs. She came with me this morning to my house to help pack Alexa’s clothes and toiletries, and we decided to stay at my place for the rest of the day. A change of scenery, mix things up, keep me out of a funk-amateur psychology, but we’re doing the best we can.

“Take this,” she says, handing me a pill. I’m past seven hours now. I did a shit job of planning this thing. “Don’t chew it, Jason, no matter how much you want to.”

I do what she says. I swallow it and wash it down with water she gives me. It will work the way it’s supposed to-slowly releasing pain suppression, albeit over a short time window-instead of the way I typically took it, crushing it between my teeth to get the entire impact all at once. Every time I’ve taken one of these over the last several days with Shauna’s oversight, I’ve had to fight the instinct to bite down, to release all of the glorious love instantaneously. This process would probably be easier if I had the kind of OxyContin that is typically marketed these days, time-release pills that are crush-proof so addicts can’t do exactly what I used to do and go for the instant home run. But someone would have to prescribe that for me, and nobody will, certainly not Dr. Evans, whom I haven’t seen in a month. So I’m left with the ones I purchased from Billy Braden, the crushable boys.

Shauna helps me up the stairs, which isn’t easy given our size differential, but somehow I make it to the couch in my living room. I curl up on my side in the fetal position while she examines me. I am shivering and sweating. My head is screaming, the high-pitched whine that televisions make when they’re doing a test: This is a test, this is a test of the emergency broadcast system, this is only a test, BRRRRRRRRRRRR-

“This is too hard for us alone,” she says. “I was beginning to think we could do this. You were doing so well. But Jason, this is-”

“I’m not. . not checking into a. . not yet. . not yet. .”

She buries her face between my neck and shoulder. “Keep fighting, Jase,” she whispers. “Will you keep fighting?”

“I’ll keep. . fighting,” I say, as I lurch forward again, more dry-heaving. “Shit, Shauna,” I say between halting breaths, “how did I. . ever let this. . happen?”

“It happens to the best of people,” she says, wiping my wet hair off my face, stroking my cheek. “It’s poison. It ruins people. But it didn’t ruin you, Jason. You stopped in time. You’re going to break free of this. You have to believe that.”

“This isn’t. . this isn’t going to end well. . you know that. .”

“It is going to end well, Jason. You’re going to beat this.”

“No,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, my hands clutching my stomach. “I mean Alexa. . Something bad’s go-going to happen. .”