I was staring out the window one icy Ohio morning. I could see my breath against the window pane as I shivered in my seat on my way to school. I was bundled up in my leggings, covered in thermal underwear, hastily tucked under my blackwatch plaid uniform skirt. I had wool socks, waterproof boots, and layers upon layers over my sports bra. I knew I had gym class that day. I hated to change clothes around the preppie bitches I called my classmates. They had been cruel to me since I started this educational nightmare three years prior. My notebook was covered with offensive bands, offensive sayings. I wore a black crucifix around my neck. My black nail polish was chipped, my cat eyes were slightly smeared that day. I looked out the frosty window pane that morning and I knew I needed to get the fuck out of here. I imagined myself in a movie, I saw it. I knew one day I would be someone special. But I was fucking nobody, seventeen and alone.
My first time I really remember getting high was at seven years old. Some of my sister's friends decided it would be funny to get me high to get me to shut up. They were teenagers and did not like having a kid around them. Who likes to get high with prying eyes? I don't remember much about the feeling but I do remember the way the alcohol burned as it went down. I never liked the taste of alcohol, only the effects. I remember the way people laughed at me. Apparently, I wasn't getting high the right way. They wanted to teach me. I slid down on the couch and felt sleepy. This was not not the first time this went on, or even the last time. It was just another stepping stone in my road to addiction. My parents were at work and I was high like everyone else because apparently it was not a big deal to them.
The next time I remember getting drunk was at a wedding. Someone started pouring me drinks. How old was I- 10? I am not sure. I don't remember much except for seeing the world start to spin. The colors became hazy and felt as if I was melting into a chair. The next thing I knew, I was 22 years old with a needle hanging out of my arm.
"Tracey..." I felt someone shaking me before I heard the voice " Tracey we have to go."
I had ended up somewhere between two cars. I guess I had started nodding off right there in front of God and everybody. I saw the trail of crusted blood starting to form down my elbow as I peeped through my pirate eye.
"What were you thinking?!!!!!" he asked me. He starts to pull me to my feet.
I am starting to come back to my senses. I hear the sound of children playing. I look around- I have my back turned to a school yard. They must have let the children out for recess. The look like they are about seven years old.
"Bryan, " I tell him in that garbled junkie voice. "I was back in Ohio. How could people get a little kid high?" I am stuck in woe is me opiate moment, when a junkie turns into a pool of fuck you. Nothing good comes of that mood swing; nothing productive ever comes when I inject self pity and back it up with a few units of self loathing. I had tried to analyze my life a thousand nods ago and I still ended up in this same place, with me the ever present victim. It felt comfortable to me, like nodding off in a sunny alley with no regard for anyone else or their feelings.
Now he started pulling me and cursing at me "you are one to fucking talk, Tracey. What the fuck are you doing out here. Stop all your hope to die shit and learn how to live."