text: The first thing he noticed was the familiar numbing in his nose. That familiar feeling was coming, like a blast from a space rocket. A feeling that could be reached by no other thing. Like a wonderful stretch, or a powerful, itching orgasm. The feeling was incredible and had a brilliant excitement that filled his body from his feet to his fingertips. Warm, bitter mucus slid deliciously down his throat as he knocked his head back with a thrust and pinched his nose. He snorted deeply, tasting that familiar chemical taste much more now. His head was beginning to rush. He envisioned his brain, with vessels and pulsing flesh, pushing itself up on two legs, and running, *sprinting,* into an infinite. Liam opened his eyes at last, looking forward. His vision had sharpened with immense clarity. Waves of ecstasy bolted exponentially from his chest, outward down the lengths of his arms and legs. He’d begun to think that his arms were involuntarily floating from his sides as he tilted his head back once again and looked at the ceiling, his pupils black and gigantic. His white popcorn ceiling now harbored a lovely light blue tint, and he let out a moan of pleasure as that *feeling* intensified. Rita Bailey was sitting in her large velvet sofa-chair, with a silk zebra robe that had pink handcuffs and bottom lining. The chair’s support had seams and buttons that formed diamonds of felt. There was a tall lamp that stood next to it that casted a mellow orange light over her. This was Rita’s reading spot. At this time, she’d been reading *Twilight*. Sitting in her chair, with the book in one hand - the cover had ghostly arms that held a red apple out to the reader - and a glass of wine in the other, she looked up from her book, at her open bedroom door. She removed her pink reading glasses from her nose and looked at the lit hallway. She hadn’t been hearing much from Liam anymore, and she was becoming more and more aware of it in the recent months. Twenty years, and two doors down the hall, yet she had this feeling that she didn’t know her son, at all. That he was some stranger. She’d *birthed* him, of course she knew him, but still... The quiet seemed more full. It was rather disquieting for Rita. She was dimly aware that she’d been pulling off the skin on her fingers. Rita bit her nails until they bled, and now there was a battleground of flaky ragged skin at her fingertips. She attacked her fingers for most of her life, really. It was especially bad when she was in elementary school. A span of time that seemed so far away, it felt ancient. Her third grade teacher, *Madame Thompson* (she required that each student use *Madame* when referring to her) who taught her French class had once seen Rita biting her nails while she’d been teaching. Madame Thompson was holding a wooden three foot ruler and smacked it sharply on her left hand. It scared Rita; It scared everyone. Half of the projector’s casted light cut her face into halves. Her right eye locked on Rita’s, her left was dim from the darkness of the classroom. Rita saw an evil cat, waiting behind a closet door in the blackness. “*Rita*,” she said. Rita only looked at her. A bolt of terror shot into her chest and sizzled uneasily on her scalp, then she was feeling other eyes turn on her, as well. Her palms were hot and moist over the cool wooden desk. Her fingernails throbbed horribly. “*That is a very bad ‘abit,*” she said in her strong Belgium accent, “*I’m saying this in English so that you understand. You ‘ave your ‘ands in your mouth like a little mouse.”* She brought her hands to her mouth, scrunched her face, and made chipping mice noises. Three kids began to giggle. “*Pretty little girls, you see, need to have pretty hands... okey?”* She said, extending her fingers outward. She then pompously walked down her row, with every pair of eyes on her, and pointed her ruler to Rita’s hands. *“Those nails are just* too *short, girlfriend. That is how you get* disease, *Rita,”* she clicked her tongue several times and shook her head in disapproval. Madame Thompson carried on with her lesson with no other input. Rita was frozen in horror, utterly embarrassed, feeling like crying. Oh, Rita cried quite often in her French class. She fought it miserably until the end, and was finishing what she’d started the second she stepped out the door. She realized now, in her reading chair, that she was not pulling, but now biting her skin and nails in the wake of this dreadful memory. Rita immediately seized her hands, slapping them to her thighs. There was nothing she could hear. Usually she would hear music from Liam’s room. It was never very loud, something that Liam had always been rather respectful of, but it was still there. Rita heard nothing, but the air-conditioner. *He’s probably just asleep*, she thought, and looked at the clock on her bedside table. The clock read 9:03 PM. Suddenly, she felt like checking on him. She hasn’t done this since he was sixteen, but she had an odd urge to see him. She got up and started forward, instinctively moving her hand toward her mouth, she fought it back. Now in the hallway, a dim worry began to drift over her. *He never goes to sleep this early, I’m just gunna check on ‘im real quick, no big deal.* She envisioned herself knocking twice, opening his door, and seeing him reading a novel in his bed. *The Stand* it would be. A book she’d recommended to him a while back. He would have corded earbuds in his ears, and his gigantic black curls would be hanging on the pages. Rita had been quite right about her thoughts of Liam being this sort of stranger. Liam was becoming a stranger to his mother and intended to keep his doings under her radar. He went many lengths to make this possible. Little did his mother know, but Liam had started selling cocaine, and had become severely addicted somewhere along the way. His habit now progressed to individual binges in his bedroom that sent him incoherently babbling in euphoria while his records played (these past few weeks, it had been *The Wall*) on his three-year-old vinyl player. When his mother reached the door, she was met with a faint clicking sound coming from inside his room. She then realized it was his vinyl player. It was skipping at a steady rate. She looked to her right at the bathroom door next to his and saw that it was pushed open slightly. The light was off inside. “Liam?” Rita said lightly. No response. She waited a second, then tapped his door twice. “Liam,” she said again, with nothing in return. “Liam, are you--?” She said, reaching for his door knob that he’d locked three hours earlier. She rattled the doorknob and listened once again. The skipping continued. Anxiety started to crawl up her throat. “Liam,” she said fiercely, and rapped his door hard three times, “unlock this door right now.” She tried to forcibly open the door in a light panic, then seized her hair for a bobby pin. She pulled it down and her hair fell over her eyes. Light gray hair strands lay on her hands as she bent the bobby pin outward. She fit it inside the doorknob’s circular keyhole and fumbled the lock to turn. When Rita finally managed to open the door, she could not have been more ill-prepared to see what she saw, because the whole time she’d been thinking about Allan. Her husband had died of a heart attack ten years before, scarring her with a trained paranoia of the quiet. Of the Dark. At first, she had to push the door open from the scattered clothes that lay on the floor, but she didn’t have to go far to catch the full picture. The skipping vinyl could now be heard much louder. Liam’s arms lay limply by the sides of his wooden desk chair. He was facing perpendicular to the door, so that his mother saw his side-angle. His legs were kicked out on their heels. Liam’s neck curved over the back of his wooden chair, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, showing red and blue veins. Vomit that looked like chunky cream soup spilled thickly out of his open mouth. He was completely motionless. Rita dropped the pin and let out a blood-curdling scream that lasted for at least fifteen seconds, driving her fingers madly into her hair. Betty, the next door neighbor, who actually sat to the left of Rita in that very third grade class, flipped around on her couch, her blonde pony-tail twisting and whipping her in the face, and looked across the yard at the Bailey’s. Betty and Rita were now life-long friends, and she remembers Rita’s fingernail episode, along with many others, almost as vividly as Rita does. They shared many vivid memories, including the one that they would form in the next five minutes. She pranced out of her house, and bolted toward Rita’s. Betty walked into Rita’s house to hear more screams like broken glass cutting horribly into the kitchen from the back of the house. All of the lights had been off. She cut right out of the kitchen toward the hallway. Liam’s door was open and Betty could tell that Rita was in there. She could hear her hoarse, helpless wails from his room. “Liam...” she cried and fell into deep tears and cries that were so unsettling she could already feel the onset of tears of her own. “RITA!” She called out, jogging down the hall. Betty swung around the door to see Liam laying on his side on his maroon and yellow carpet. A pool of vomit sat next to his face in creamy chunks. Rita was on her knees next to him, with a phone to her ears. On his desk, a small bag of white powder was opened on a book cover. His desk was scattered with this white powder in chopped lines. A blue debit-card was stained white next to them. Rita turned and looked up at Betty, to see a horrified expression on her face. “Oh, Betty...” she wailed, her face broke into pieces. Betty could hear ringing on Rita’s end, and she lightly took the phone out of Rita’s trembling hands, she did not protest. “9-1-1 What’s your emergency?” “Uh, hi...” Betty ran her fingers through her hair, “my neighbor’s son just overdosed I think.” “What’s the address ma’am?” “It’s, 318 Coyue Road.” “Okay. We’re sending someone over, right now, okay? Just hang tight. Is he breathing or showing any sort of response?” Betty examined Liam. He seemed to be convulsing lightly. Only the whites of his eyes showed. A low, guttural moan surfaced under the vomit. His feet were twitching. “I- I don’t know, ma’am, he’s thrown up all everywhere, I don’t know if he’s alive or not.” “That’s quite alright, what’s your name ma’am?” “Hillinger. Betty Hillinger.” “Okay, Ms. Hillinger, it’s quite alright. Just stay on the line for me okay?” “Okay...” Betty replied, and realized with panic that Rita now had cocaine in her house. Sure, the EMS would come to save the day, but then the Police would have questions to ask. Betty crooked the phone in-between her shoulder and walked over to Liam’s desk. She grabbed his trash can, took the debit-card and began swiping the coke into the garbage. “Do you know the name of the victim?” “Uh, yes. It’s William Bailey, his mother is Rita Bailey, she’s watching him right here.” Rita had been holding Liam’s head and looked up stupidly at Betty in her dazed hysteria. She grabbed the baggie and tossed it in with the debit-card. Betty slipped out of Liam’s room and into the kitchen. She put the bag on the counter and reached under the sink for Clorox wipes, went back and wiped his desk. “Do you know what drugs he’s taken tonight to cause the overdose?” Betty stopped mid-cleaning, “No ma’am, I-I’m not sure,” and continued, throwing the wipe into the bag with the rest. She began frantically looking around for any other evidence, and could not find any. “Alright... ” The responder replied. Betty could now hear sirens coming from down the road. She darted back out, tied the bag closed and threw it into her own garbage bin down the drive. Betty was opening the screen door to re-enter when she saw flashing lights coming down Coyue. The ambulance stopped on the road and three men came rushing toward the house, through the front yard. “EMS has arrived so... I’m gunna let you go, okay?” Betty said, a crack in her voice now. “Okay. Bye, Bye now.” The responder replied, and ended the line. She walked down the hallway towards Liam’s bedroom. She didn’t want to see him again. It was scary, seeing his limp scrunched up body like that. His skin was all pale and his face was smashed into the carpet and it pulled the right side of his face down as he slumped. *Ohh, fuck me* Betty thought. Rita was stroking Liam’s hair softly. Her face never left his. “Hey, baby. They’re here, okay?” Betty crouched down next to Rita and put her hand on her shoulder. Rita turned to face Betty and her face shattered once again. Seeing Rita like this, with her overdosed son behind her, tore a part out of her that she would never regrow. She fixed on Liam’s face. His right eyelid was pulled down so far that she could have reached in and picked it like a blueberry out of his skull. The responders came to the bedroom door with a stretcher. They rolled into Liam’s room, and Betty took Rita’s hands helping her up. The men picked up Liam and set him on the stretcher. Rita placed a hand over her mouth and began wailing hysterically. It was now Betty that began to cry. Silent streams of tears flowed out of her eyes. She saw Liam; the same two-year old Liam that played with his little boats in the tub when she babysat, the same five-year old Liam who was obsessed with Legos, the same ten-year old Liam that played “Count On Me” in the talent show at Leido Heights; was now being lodged onto a stretcher with vomit coming from his mouth and white veiny eyes that bulged at the wall. “My little baby...” Rita said helplessly. Tears ran down her stuffy cheeks and red nose as she watched them rush Liam out of her house, and into the ambulance. Rita climbed in with them, Betty followed in her Prius.