Angel.
So it has finally ceased, has it not? No longer do words flow from your lips like the rushing waves that still crash against the white beaches where you once lived. Silenced are the legions of fans who used to follow your every move, tracking you like hunted animal, desperate for a very glimpse of your face as you hid behind smoked glass and tinted mirror.
Gone
are the piles of riches, the gifts bequeathed by corporations eager to see your
famous name plastered on one product or other, begging you and pleading with
you for endorsement, for you to whore out your image to the highest bidder.
Empty
is the bed you once laid in with her…gone is the scent of her perfume, her
clothing, the towels she would lay in a heap in a corner, infuriating you to no
end.
Still
remaining are the less-than-savory trappings of fame…the reduced sense of self,
the hangers-on and entourage, still expecting gifts and tokens of affection you
can no longer afford.
The
drugs are still there…the piles of plastic baggies, the scorched spoons, the
empty vials and wasted syringes, laid in a misshapen mound like some bizarre
offering.
In
the middle of it all, blood on your lips and glassy haze in your eyes, you lay,
half in the world of the living, half still in the world of dreams. Your breathing is shallow; your chest does
not rise and fall the same easy way it once did. It’s as though some terrible weight, some
unseen burden, has been placed directly over your heart, stifling your air and
weakening your limbs. Your teeth chatter
and your fingers curl into themselves, though the air outside is frightfully
warm and equally humid. Doubtless you
even know day from night anymore. You’re
a slave to the chemicals’ potent caress.
It
is then that I approach you, feet treading lightly over the wooden floor,
littered with shards of glass from bottles that lay broken nearby. To my knees I fall, my soul filling with pity
for your plight. Three times you have
called for me, three times I answered your call, only
to see you turn your back on my eagerly offered help. Instead, you ran yet again into the arms of
your angel, flinching as is your custom when the needle pierces your
flesh. Many nights I have held you when
the shivers rocked your body like a paper boat upon a vast unforgiving
sea. Many nights have I tilted your head
to the side as the contents of your stomach expel themselves violently. Many nights I wince as you curse the one who
might help you, indeed, the one who has given you the very fame you once
coveted.
But
I am only a messenger, a comforter, a witness to the tragedy your life has
become. I cannot undo wrongs. I cannot change what has already been
written. I can merely offer you solace
in your times of need, should you only be humble enough to accept it. I am here merely to stand in silence, guiding
you on this journey that is fast approaching its end, if you do not change your
current path.
What
lies in that thin sheath of plastic cannot and will not save you. There is no hope in hopelessness; you of all
people should recognize it. One who has
seen such dizzying heights should appreciate all the more the depths to which
despair can take you. But I cannot make
that choice. It is up to you.
**
The
broken man blearily opened his eyes, twisting his aching head to the side as
though he had heard a phantom voice whispering in his ear. His body throbbed with weariness; his skull screamed as though it had been ripped open, but save
for the blood seeping from his cracked lips there was nary a tear on his
once-luminous skin.
Hands
trembling, he reached for the plastic bag laying mere inches in front of his
outstretched fingers. When his fist
closed around the parcel he sighed mercifully and relaxed, dipping his narrow
fingers into the mess of white powder.
Rest…just for now…rest.
Sighing,
he entered another sleepless night.
© 2002. ~A.