The Emerson Review // Volume 49

I want to go home.

Nurse basically moonwalks into the hall; gets Dr., who says the relapse rate is extremely high for heroin addicts who don’t complete a detox blah blah blah blah.

How long have you been on the smack?

About three years; started in the summer between 10th and 11th grade.

And your folks just found out?

It’s not hard to hide. Who thinks the captain of the tennis team is a junkie?

You do a lot of other drugs?

Just heroin.

I yank out the IV and leave. Dr. follows, whisper-yelling disclaimers.

United Hospital isn’t liable if I leave against medical advice and something happens. He makes me sign a form in the lobby. I call Dad from a payphone.

Journal Entry #137 Thought I was dreaming when I heard Dad’s voice. Switchblade authority.

Wake up and smell the coffee, Robin. Your son’s a dope fiend.

I start coughing. Everything hurts. This fat guy comes out of the kitchen, scratching his inner cheek with his pinky nail.

Hey, yo. Bob. The dope fiend is up.

Dark outside. Clock says 6:06. AM? PM? Dad appears; phone cradled in his neck. All gray hair. Narrow-eyed once over.

Bob. Whaddaya want me to do?

I don’t know, Howie. Sit on him so he doesn’t try it again?

Howie tackles me to the floor and plants his giant ass on the base of my spine; hot dog and bad coffee breath. I squirm and laugh. I cough up bile. My nose starts bleeding. Howie peels me off the floor. He rubs my shoulders and nods at a broken glass jar and loose change at the end of a trail of blood from the kitchen to the front door, on the tiles and the mat, caked into the grout.

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