The Contractor
Part One

Author's Note: Story contains elements of drug use and miscarriage.

For me, nothing exists- nothing except her and the thoughts: Where am I going to get my hit? Am I going to have to pimp myself out again to pay for it? Will it get fronted?

Just those thoughts. Eventually, the thoughts lead to the action I wanted so desperately- scoring the next hit. Next thing I know, I'm in the bathroom at a truck stop, using my syringe to get the toilet water on the spoon to mix the stuff. God, the stuff, the stuff, the stuff.

Who knew heroin could control? Well, me, obviously. And the other junkies out there. It's amazing- all this control. Control from sadness. Pain. Grief. Just numbness. Nothingness.

Enough talk. I need to start cooking it.
It's done, now it's just time to pick the vein. I've got too many collapsed on my arms and legs, I can't let her see them again. Fuck. Where?
Eventually, I shoot it up between my toes. Hurts like Hell, but at least I can feel the darkness coming.

I wake up three hours later, still in the haze. I look at my watch and see the time. Well, it's almost time to go home. She's going to be cooking dinner soon. It's a good thing she believes I'm at work all this time. It's a good thing my part with work's been done for the past three weeks.

I take the bus to where I parked my car. Then drive home.

She still looks amazing after 5 years of marriage. She's outside as I pull up to the house and runs to jump into my arms. Still light as a feather, too.

"I hate it when you've got to go to work all the time. I know it's part of the promotion, but I still miss you."

Her voice is so sweet, It reminds me of honey.

I tell her the usual news: all is going well, the next construction site is being scouted and I should be home more after it's chosen. She nods her head, still smiling sadly. I put my hand under her chin and kiss her. She smiles warmly this time and leads me into the house, the table still set.
I take my time getting to the table, partly because of the heroin haze and because of the pictures.

On the table between the kitchen and living room, there are framed pictures of us: our first date. First road trip. First meeting with the parents. The engagement. The wedding. So many more. She dominates them all- subtly- with that sweet smile. So warm. Welcoming. Trusting. Loving.

By the time we finish dinner, the haze has lifted. It's good with the bad. The good- I get to sleep next to her tonight without her worrying if I'm high. The bad- I can only give it so much time to enjoy the feel of her skin before I have to go score again.

I fall asleep with her cradled in my arms, her lavender shampoo cradling me further into sleep.

I've been married to her for 5 and been a junkie for 4. I need to pick what I want more. Even though I want both.

The first time she saw me shoot up was an accident. I didn't know she was going to be home so soon from her appointment. She walked right into the bathroom as I was about to strap my belt around my arm.

"Andrew…what the hell are you doing?"

Her voice broke even before she finished my name. I'd never felt so ashamed before.

She grabbed the syringe and almost broke her skin with the needle before she broke it in the sink.

I watched as it went down the sink, hot water steaming her tear-stained face.

"You don't understand," I said, trying not to cry.

"You're right. I don't. I thought we were doing okay. You heard what the doctor said, sweetheart. It happens. We get over it and move on and try again. We promised each other."

Yes, I'd heard what the doctor said. I was the one who drove her to the hospital. I was the one who heard her crying as the hospital staff came and strapped her to the gurney. I was the one who heard her voice broken with tears. I still remember those four words.

"Please save our baby."

They had to perform an emergency C-section after sedating her. I watched as the pulled out our small baby, its head no bigger than my fists, which were clenched to my side.

We never knew if it was a boy or girl. We only knew what we had lost.

I sat next to her when they found her a room and cried by her hand.

I remember the doctor. The doctor had green eyes. Black hair. Her nametag read "Dr. Bhandaras".

She explained what had happened to me, then to my wife.

After three days, my wife could leave.

She cried on the couch for almost a week, barely moving or eating. Our first pregnancy. First miscarriage. There's something just absolutely fucking perfect for our picture table of firsts.

I remember agreeing with her to try again. But in the back of my head, I could hear my own voice saying "There's only one first. Everything else pales."

I promised her, but I promised myself it'd be the first and last.

Afterwards, we pulled ourselves back together. But still, we couldn't get pregnant again.

Heroin pulled me back, as fucking stupid as it sounds. I could work again and it seemed live again. If I work it the right way I can have both. Heroin and Love.