After the Fire

Everyday smells more and more like Indian food.  Must be the owners, down in their tiny shitbox office, cooking some sort of lentils and curry or whatever.  The blankets smell like it, the towels smell like it, she smells like it, next to me, as she quivers and sweats.  When I raise my forearm to my nose, even I smell like the spicy Indian food.  I begin to associate the smell with the girl and I grow to love it; I will be sad if someone launders these blankets, which is unlikely.  Two days ago the toilet overflowed, and a puddle formed in the carpet outside the shoebox bathroom.  It’s overflowed twice more since, and now when we walk to the bathroom it squishes between our bare toes.  It is cold like dewy grass, but mushy like oatmeal.  This morning I thought I was really going to die.  My whole body hurt, and I got so hot like I was exploding.  I vomited bile on her pants, which I was wearing but I do not remember putting on.  She did not seem to care, though.  She has driven to Harrisburg now, to see if she can find any drugs she can afford.  The teenage girl stopped by again last night and gave me a bottle of gin.  I can’t keep any of it down.  I throw it up, I throw it up, I throw it up.  The carpet between the twin beds—where I am sitting—is soaked through with my puke-gin.  If I could hold some down I’d feel better; I would stop dying.  Last night the three of us played truth or dare and I thought I was dying.  I ate a jalapeño off the teenage girl’s breast without shame, but now in the daylight, all alone, I do feel shame.  There is a three-day-old pizza from Papa Johns on the radiator but no one is able to eat it, not even the teenager when she stops by.  There is an unused tampon in the middle of the pizza from some practical joke I can’t remember.  Somehow we have a little boombox but only two CDs; the song What a Good Boy by Barenaked Ladies has been on repeat for hours now, and I am watching Hey Arnold! on mute as I try to get this gin to stay down.  She bought me expensive gin, too.  I am in this hellhole and I am puking Tanqueray onto the floor, and onto the pinstriped women’s pants I am wearing.  Last night I was curled up on the floor in the shower, and she dumped a bucket of ice water over the curtain onto me.  She was trying to be funny, but she didn’t know I was dying.  We have to find some money to stay another night.  Everything smells like curry.  A few nights ago I had a mini-seizure and I knocked the lamp off the nightstand. It didn’t break, but it scared me a lot.  My penis has been less than an inch long for days now and I can do nothing to change that.  What a fate, to die so shriveled surrounded by helpless women.  Cigarettes have been put out on the carpet everywhere.  Yesterday I found a butt in her mascara.  Sitting here, Indian-style, watching Hey Arnold!, I can smell my ass through these pants and my underwear.  It doesn’t smell like shit, but like an ass without shit.  I haven’t shit for a week—not that I recall.  There we go, there we go, there we go—a sip has stayed down for over three minutes.  Each sip will be easier now.  A sip, a sip, a sip, a sip, now a gulp, now a gulp, ah! I feel good, I feel less hot, less shaky, the all-over-pain has drawn back like a persistent tide.  Smiling and laughing, I collapse face-first into my puke-gin and so damn happy.  I am going to die in this hellhole.

4 Responses to “After the Fire”

  1. Kyle Sundgren Says:

    Holy shit, how did I and everyone else miss this when it was originally posted?!

    • sethdellinger Says:

      This is actually one that was imported from a blog I had briefly right before this one…I can’t even remember the name of the site…my blog there was called After the Fire and I ended up coming to WordPress on your urging…so these first entries were “imported”, hence why some of them look fucked up…but there were definitely some comments on the original posting on the other blog site.

  2. ShipGurl Says:

    Wow Seth, you’ve come a very long way. This is remarkable. And sickening. I feel nauseous from reading this, I really never knew addiction was so horrific. Thank you for sharing.

  3. […] blog, part one here and part two here .   There’s a dandy of an entry on the topic here.  Here is a good one about when I was very close to rock bottom.  Anyway, there are TONS, I’ve been […]

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