Very faintly, I could hear music around me. It was that New Jack that always pumped from the speakers of boom boxes, that dope vibe that I was glad made it’s way into the nineties. This one song though, I’d never heard. Didn’t know the rapper but I definitely knew the singer on the hook.
“Turn that up.”
“Brooklyn, if you don’t shut your drunk ass up. Ain’t nobody turning shit up for you. You don’t run nothing in this damn house.”
It actually took me a minute to open my eyes, a real struggle since I’m sure I’ve been passed out for a good chunk of the day. With my hands over my head, stretched out on this couch that feels like it has more springs than cushion, I took one deep breath and inhaled. Immediately my nose started burning so I know I either threw up at some point, or my nose bled during this binge I’ve been on. I think it’s been four days, maybe five. “Fuck you Bubb, I said turn that shit up!”
“Druggie ass bitch, since when do you listen to political hip-hop anyway?” He killed the noise his fat ass was making and turned it up. Eyes open, I squinted until they adjusted to the bright lights of the room and I looked around.
The friends that I’d come with were gone, I was half naked, and it was nothing but niggas spread about the room. Same shit, every day.
“Alright, alright, Baton Rouge, that was the new jam from Laquan featuring Ricky Bell and it’s called Now’s The B Turn. That’s a hot one, sounds like it was recorded for the summer, but still a dope hit nonetheless. Be sure you pick up his album Notes Of A Native Son on the 11th of September, from what I hear it’s supposed to be an instant classic. And of course, you know that I will be giving away a couple of free copies on release day. Keep it tuned in to KQXL-FM, 106.3. It’s ya boy Corey B, and we’ll be right back.”
I stood up, stumbling as I tried to keep my balance while I looked around for the biker shorts and crop top I’d worn. I was also searching for my Adidas but I know Bubb’s big, ugly ass got those hidden somewhere just so I won’t leave. This nigga swears up and down that holding my shoes hostage will make me drop to my knees and beg for them or suck him off in exchange. Psh, not this bitch.
A druggie, a bit of a hoe, sure, but a bitch ain’t that damn desperate. Not behind some shoes my main nigga can replace. “Stupid bastard, made me miss the rest of the song. Where the fuck is my clothes and shoes?”
“I don’t know what you leavin’ for? You coming right back as soon as you cop another hundred from that dumb nigga you with, and you gon’ be right here smokin’ it away with me.”
“First of all, even on my highest day, I wouldn’t buy a motherfucking bag, rock, or anything else from you. Enough for you to fuck around and lace my shit? Nigga no. I come here with my own shit, and the only time I come is when I’m with Bonita hoe ass. That’s who you need to worry about sucking that tiny ass dick.”
“You want it Brooklyn, and you know it.”
“I’d rather be hooked on heroine. Gimme my shit so I can leave!”
I felt something hit my face, my shirt and shorts and it took everything in me not to fly my little ass across the room at this dude named Tyrone. “Get the fuck out, bucket head ass bitch.”
“Shut yo ass up before I let all your boys know you got fucked by a tranny.” His eyes bugged and I covered my mouth as I smirked. “Oops. My bad.”
Before I could say anything else, and get my ass beat in the process, I left, only stopping in the hallway to put my clothes on. I’ll just have to walk home barefoot again.
Like I said, same thing, everyday.
What should have been a thirty minute walk took me an hour and by the time I finally make it home, I didn’t even want to go inside. Instead, I took another twenty-five minutes and walked all the way to my mama’s.
She’s gonna bitch and complain but I know that she’ll get me back into a better state by the time I really sober up.
I walked through her door and not even a second later I could hear her loud and booming voice. “Strung out again, ain’t you?”
I’d waste my time by lying to her again, but there’s no point in that. I don’t even hide the fact that I do drugs from her anymore. “Yeah, but I’m still not prostituting.”
“Tuh, as if the life you live isn’t pretty damn close to that.”
I shrugged before plopping down on her couch, rubbing my sore feet. “Get your funky ass up off of my clean couch!”
“Damn Mama, can’t I just rest for a minute? My feet hurt, I had to walk here.”
“You’ve been in a house full of drugs, probably having orgies with multiple men and women, and I don’t need none of that filth resting and stinking up my furniture. I don’t even have my good plastic down.”
I shook my head and stood up, pulling at the ends of my stringy and matted red hair. “Just look at you Brooklyn; skinny, sick, face looking all gaunt. You’re the first black woman I’ve seen look so damn pale, you don’t even look like my pretty little brown baby anymore. Girl, you look like you could die any day now.”
I’d like to say that comment hurt me, but I’ve heard it so much over the last three years and the fact that she feels I’m gonna die soon doesn’t even bother me anymore. “You know what they say Mama, we’re not guaranteed days on this Earth. Every time I take a hit or snort a line or inject myself, I feel like it’s my time to die.”
“Why would you put yourself through that type of thing?”
I looked at her for a minute. I know my eyes are bloodshot red, maybe still a little glossy, and I know that it pains her to see the darkness in them. My bright brown eyes have been as black as my heart for years and every time she looks in them, she bursts out in tears. Mama won’t hug me anymore though, won’t comfort me, or let me know that everything will be okay. She never tells me that I can make it through my addictions anymore.
She knows I won’t, and don’t want to.
“I’m just over life. I’m tired of my life and I don’t want to live it anymore.”
I just wish that I could tell her why.