Monday Notes: Fentanyl

“Get off the couch,” she said.

He had been lying there for thirty minutes, venting about his family—his mother’s ineptitude, his father’s rules, his dumb-ass brother—he was tired of all of them. They didn’t understand his twenty-something-year-old needs.

“And pass the blunt,” she added. “You’ve been holding it too long.”

He inhaled a drag that stretched time. He paused, then his lips parted, releasing a slow cloud of smoke. He ignored her and continued ranting about his family’s immigrant culture, a square peg in an American circle.

“Come on, man,” another young woman said, her arms pasty and long. Her eyes bugged. She had just tucked her two-year-old daughter away, safe and sound in a small corner of her bed. He was blowing her high.

A third woman, the pasty one’s girlfriend, stood in the kitchen with her arms folded, examining the scene, leery about the direction of the three’s interactions.

The first woman sat on the floor cross-legged. “Sit by me,” she coaxed, patting the carpet beside her and extending her hand, short, brown, and slender.

The young man stood and took her hand, as if he were allowing her to pull him toward the ground beside her. Instead, he kicked her in the ribs, the way he used to when he tried to score goals on the soccer field, just a few years ago, when they were in high school, hopeful and free.

Her body caved. She whimpered and crouched in a fetal position.

“Woah, man,” the pasty woman said. His actions triggered memories of abuse, from her mother, her boyfriend. “What the fuck is wrong witchu, man? You having a mental breakdown, man?” She inched closer to help her friend who lie crying on the floor.

“Shut the fuck up!” he said, flinging her across the room, away from her friend and into a wall. A picture of her and her child hit the ground. Shards of glass crunched beneath his feet as he paced the room seeking more destruction.

“Y’all get in the room,” the third woman instructed. “Call his brother! I got this.”  

The pasty woman grabbed her friend, and the two hid behind the locked bedroom door. The woman held her toddler, who by now was wide awake. Her friend searched her contacts for his brother’s number. After all, he was her responsibility; she’d brought him to their apartment.

A fight ensued on the other side of the door.

He punched the woman who’d chosen to defend the others; she stumbled. She fell when his fist landed a second time. He pummeled her face as if she were inhuman, as if he were superhuman. She lay lifeless. Satisfied, he pulled his shirt over his head. He unbuckled and unzipped his pants and let them fall to the ground. He stepped out of his boxers, wet with sweat. Naked, he beat the woman until her face grew puffy with resistance.

Still entranced, he looked around, wondering where everyone was. The room. Two kicks, that’s all it took for the wooden door to cave. The women cowered in the corner. The baby cried.

Finally, his father and brother arrived.

“What did you do to him?” he asked, surveying his older brother’s bloody knuckles, his nude body, his wild eyes.

The young women had done nothing to the young man. But he had accidentally done something to all of them. Doctors found traces of fentanyl in the man’s system. The weed that he’d bought and that the four smoked had been unknowingly laced with the opioid, even he didn’t know it.

But they learned that day. Overdose simply means you’ve had too much of something. Death is but one result.

The man said he thought he was in hell and had to fight his way out.

The first woman had a fractured rib. She also had labored breathing for three days afterwards.

The woman with the baby spent much of the day vomiting.

The last woman suffered a concussion and severe bruising to her face.

As you all know, I do not write fiction. This is based on a true story. Tell everyone you know that there is a fentanyl epidemic in the States; use this story if you want.

Also,

These are not “bad” young adults.This is not only a Florida problem.This is not only a white people problem.This group of friends smokes marijuana to de-stress.These twenty-somethings are not thrill-seeking drug users.This could happen to anyone you know who smokes weed recreationally.Two of the people in this story know the marijuana dealer and have bought from him before.One way to avoid this is to not do drugs at all. But that is not realistic, as this is not where we are in this country.Monday Notes: FentanylCover Reveal: In Search of a Salve: Memoir of a Sex AddictMonday Notes: Practicing What I Preach: Time BoundariesTurning 50: Do What You WantMonday Notes: A Post-Mother’s Day Message for the Motherless