Poetry: April 13th, 2011 By George Gad Economou

April 13th 2011

 

too many days, if not months lost to blackouts. too many memories feel blurry

and confusing. when did I meet Christine?

when did I meet Bircan? when did my loan shark friend died?

on what date did this or that happened? I ask myself that a lot, especially

when I’m writing. even important dates have vanished from my

scrambled from the drugs mind.

it’s fucking alright. I remember the moments; both those worth remembering and

a lot of insignificant ones.

 

yet, there’s one day, one date, that will haunt me until I finally stop breathing.

even if I somehow make it past eighty (even though I’m looking forward to

shuffling off this mortal coil before forty), the day my Emily

died

will stay imprinted on my mind no matter how much booze I pour

into my body, or how many grams of junk, blow, ice, and angel dust I consume.

 

two days earlier, we’d been to the clinic. we were both pallid as ghosts,

trembling from the sickness and the fear. had stayed clean for two days,

just in case they performed blood tests. then, a nurse came and led

Emily to some room in the back, leaving me alone in the algid reception, under some

flickering fluorescent lights and engirdled by more ghosts. thankfully, I

had my flask filled with Jim Beam. went outside to have a cigarette and

a few pulls. I knew Emily needed those swallows way more than I did.

 

my heart was racing, my stomach was knotted, my hands were quaking.

I was sweating, I was shivering; I needed junk, and I needed to know

we were doing the right thing.

 

of course we were. we were twenty years old, we loved to party,

we loved to drink, we loved to shoot black-tar heroin, and to fuck after

snorting PCP. we smoked hash-laced cigarettes for breakfast and

stuffed glass pipes with homemade rock in the evenings to calm down.

we were not meant to become parents. we couldn’t do that to an innocent soul.

nor could we get clean for seven-eight months just for the kid to

be born without being addicted to ten different substances.

 

it was the right thing to do. I still drank out of the flask like it wasn’t.

don’t know how long the procedure took. Emily came back out,

paler than before, as if there was no blood left in her whatsoever,

and I put my arm around her waist, holding onto her as we walked to

the cab that took us to my apartment.

 

during the drive, we both remained as silent as corpses. both lost in our own thoughts,

our guilt and our regrets. we made it home, and I poured us two large

waterglasses of Evan Williams neat. we touched glasses, mechanically,

and had large swigs; she emptied half of hers in one gulp.

 

“we did the right thing,” I said, in a whisper.

“I know,” she replied, and nodded. closed her eyes and bit her thin lips.

“I know,” she repeated in a lower voice, trying to make herself believe it.

“we’re gonna be fine,” I naively said, and hugged her shoulders.

she leaned in, and we just sat there on my blue foldout couch in silence,

drinking Evan Williams and thinking of what could have been,

of what we could have done differently.

 

“George, I’m pregnant,” she had announced almost a week earlier.

“what?” I exclaimed and looked up at her as I sat on my couch,

burning the spoon.

“look at this,” she said and tossed the goddamn stick at me. it was

positive alright.

“could be false positive,” I said.

“really?”

“fine,” I sighed in exasperation, still burning the junk. “so, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” she cried and flung herself on the couch. “this sucks.”

“it does,” I agreed. then, I drew the melted junk into the syringe.

“seriously?” she asked as I started tapping on the vein on the inside of my elbow.

“I was gonna do it anyway. but now, after what you just told me? I have to do it.”

“I have to stay clean, don’t I? unless…”

“are you sure about that?”

“I’ll tell you after I have my fix.”

she grabbed the spoon and the remaining black-tar heroin; she started burning

it while the needle pierced my abused vein and my body began turning numb.

I was in a flaming meadow, chasing a mocking brown dragon, and for some

superlative hours, I didn’t remember I was supposed to start acting

like a soon-to-be father.

 

we got drunk, and only shared an awkward kiss; our drunken,

drug-fueled fucking had let to the outcome that had brought us to the clinic

in the first place. we passed out in a tight embrace, both of us

trying to find comfort while blaming each other.

we woke up, hungover as all fuck, and we had whiskey-enhanced coffee

and screwdrivers for breakfast—at one in the afternoon.

“can we move on from it?” she asked.

“yes,” I reassured her and took her hands in mine. “we’ll be fine.

we wouldn’t have survived having a kid. but we can survive this.”

“I love you, George,” she said.

then, she kissed me, and I never said it back.

it still haunts me, fifteen years later. I just hope she knew

how much I did love her.

 

two days after we found out about the pregnancy, we

were sitting on my couch, listening to music and sharing a glass pipe

filled with rock—which I had cooked.

“we can’t keep it,” she said. “there’s no way I can become a mom.”

“are you sure?” I asked. “perhaps, we can talk about it when we’re sober.”

“fuck that,” she spat. “do you really think we can become parents?”

“what if we put it up for adoption? one of those closed, uber-confidential deals.”

“and I’ll have to stay clean for seven, eight months? can you do that?”

“no way.”

“and you’d expect me to watch you do everything fun while 

I sip iced tea and drink plenty of water?”

“can’t ask you to do that,” I said with a sigh. “as always, you’re right.”

“thank you. so…we have to do it. Right?”

“abort it?” I said the word she didn’t want to utter. “I guess so, yes.”

“it’s the right thing to do. the only thing to do.”

“I know. can you survive it?” I asked. “I can. but can you?”

“yes,” she reassured me. “it’s the right thing to do,” she repeated with a mumble.

 

“did we do the right thing?” she asked me on the eve of the dreadful day.

we were drinking gin and smoking blunts.

“we did. you said it yourself; we would never become good parents.

it was merciful. it was the right thing to do,” I said, trying to convince

both her and me.

“I know,” she said, and drained her lowball of Gordon’s gin. she refilled

it, the three ice cubes in the glass had barely had time to melt, and she drank

some more.

“we’re fine the way we are,” I said. “we’re young, we’re crazy, we’re in love.

what more could we ask for?”

“that we were sane enough not to let it happen in the first place,” she said.

I had nothing to say. I just drained my glass and refilled it.

 

the day before we were to go to the clinic, we were sitting on my

couch, shivering and scratching our arms, as the hunger rose within us.

“we could burn just a little chunk,” she said.

“no. what if they do blood tests? we just have to brave through it. we can do it.”

“can we?”

“yes,” I said, and kissed her. she locked her arms around my shoulders,

and our tongues did the tango. we kept the kiss going for too long,

until we were both breathless. we craved for something to keep us alive.

“should we go?” she asked.

“it’s up to you,” I said. “I think we must, but it’s up to you, love.”

“we’re going,” she then said, and hung her head. “it’s the right thing to do.

the only thing to do.”

we kissed again. then, we had a couple of drinks. we slept in a tight embrace,

refusing to fuck, because that’s what got us trouble in the first place.

 

“are you sure about it?” I asked as we were getting dressed.

“yes. it’s the only thing we can do. the only sensible thing.”

“it is, but, again, are you absolutely sure?”

“can you imagine us as parents?

“fuck no.”

“then, we’ll go there, we do it, and we’ll come back and things will

go back to normal, right?”

I didn’t respond. I just kissed her and it felt like

everything would be all right. we left my apartment and took

the bus. in less than thirty minutes, we were at the clinic.

 

we woke up early in the afternoon on the fateful day; the day that

has dominated my life for fifteen fucking years.

we were hungover and still in love, and everything appeared alright.

I made us a couple of hangover killers, what I’ve later termed

burning hammers (from one of the most dangerous moves in wrestling):

rum and vodka, with some orange juice and a dash of bourbon.

we drank them up, then we kissed.

having aborted our child hung over our heads like a noose ready to

welcome our necks.

“how are you?” I asked as we drank our second burning hammer.

“I’m fine, I think. just sick.”

“me too. what about…?” I couldn’t finish the question.

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

I just hugged her, and kissed her. as if I had a premonition about what was coming.

I wish I did; if I’d known, I’d have done something to prevent it.

we spent most of the day drinking, sitting in a tight embrace without

exchanging words. it was sublime. silence was how we communicated best.

 

“I need to shoot. I can’t take it anymore,” she declared.

“okay, fine,” I said, also trembling from the hunger. I shoved aside some

books sitting on my coffee table and found a small plastic bag

with black-tar heroin. if I knew then what I know

now, I’d have shot the whole damn thing

the moment we returned from the clinic and she went to bed.

 

“you were hiding it from me, weren’t you?” she said, with a dry chuckle.

“maybe,” I said and stole a last kiss from her. she got up

and got a spoon from my kitchen. “I’m going first,” she announced.

“fine,” I said with a sigh of resignation and handed her the plastic bag.

 

did she put too much on purpose? did she really put too much?

couldn’t tell then, can’t tell now either. it’ll forever haunt me.

she burned the spoon and drew the bubbling heroin into the syringe.

I was just licking my lips, hungrily waiting for my turn.

she shot, and I kissed her cheek.

“it’ll be alright. we’ll go back to how things were, and it’ll be exquisite.”

“I know,” she murmured as the great dragon took her for a trip.

with a heavy heart, I burned the remaining junk, and shot.

 

my dragon returned, taunting me as I galloped around the flaming meadows.

for some hours, I felt alive; I was numb, out of my mind, and hunting

dreams that would never come true. even in my high, I could feel her

head on my shoulder, and that was all I could ask for.

we were but two kids chasing butterflies with a broken net, and our

meadows would soon merge into a singular spectacular theme park.

 

I came to. her head still rested on my shoulder. I lifted my shoulder.

no response.

got up to take a piss, and chugged an Elephant beer

that’d been sitting in my fridge for a few days—for hydration.

lit a cigarette and sat next to her.

she remained limp on the couch, bent over in an unnatural position.

“Emily,” I said, and prodded her.

nothing.

“Emily,” I screamed, shaking her as hard as I could.

her body was limp, her green eyes had lost their glow.

she never responded. she never stirred.

“Emily,” I cried, as I shook her again, then gave her

CPR—without knowing how.

nothing.

I checked for a pulse; nothing.

“Emily,” I cried and collapsed, as tears streamed down my

eyes. I was still heavy and numb from my dragon trip,

but I knew what had happened. I just refused to believe it.

 

I had no idea what to do. lost in the haze, I gathered up all our paraphernalia,

and remaining drugs, and walked down two blocks to throw them

in a garbage can. then, I came back home and called for an ambulance.

 

I just sat next to her, trying to rile her up by repeatedly mumbling her name,

and waited for the ambulance. two men came in, they checked up on her.

“she’s dead, sir. I’m sorry,” one of them said. “what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I lied, while real tears streamed down my eyes. “I just

found her like this.”

they put her on a stretcher, and my heart sank.

“we’ll take her to the hospital now. someone will call you tomorrow

to explain what needs to happen next.”

“okay,” I said, and watched them carry her out of my apartment.

I stood by the doorway as they loaded her up in the ambulance and

drove away; my Emily had left the building.

 

if I hadn’t thrown everything away, I’d have attempted to

overdose on everything. instead,

I got stupefied drunk and passed out on the floor, knowing I’d soon have

to deal with a hospital call, her parents (who didn’t know me), the cops, and a funeral

I now only vaguely remember thanks to the two liters of Wild Turkey I consumed

before and during it.

 

I’ve been drunk since that day, trying to erase the only day I cannot forget

no matter how much booze or drugs I liberally put in my body.

 

 

 

 

 

George Gad Economou resides in Greece and holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. He has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books) and his drunken words have also appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.