Note: this is a piece about my father. its like facto-fiction
I remember he went missing a lot. One Christmas he actually came home, lugged his duffel bag into the back room, and emerged with an arm full of gifts. He was a playful and affectionate father to my sisters and I -- when he wasn't alone with his needles. I remember something made him sick. Something made him shake and sweat, I just didn’t know it was called heroin. He would do anything for heroin. He would rummage through the kitchen at night looking for a small Grey box where mom kept the money. When he got sick like that all he could think of were his needles, and what it would take to fill them. Late at night I remember laying on the beam of light the spanned across the carpet. I stayed close to the wall. I watched him. Even when he had tantrums like this I couldn’t stop watching him. I remember hiding things from my mother that only met my fathers’ ears. I trusted him, and in many ways he was the only one I kept secrets with. His late night rampage through the kitchen was one of those secrets.
I could see the spoon. It was sitting on the table after being thrown down by my fathers’ hand. I could see the needle, clear and unmarked. It was in better shape than our ghetto home. The bedroom was dark, and had blue curtains drawn closed, that never parted to allow sunlight in. I could see my little toes stretched in the doorway directly where the line of light and dark began. I saw my father sitting. I wouldn’t call him a small man. He seemed like he was 16 feet tall, and his hands seemed out of proportion to even that height. They were heavy looking and solid, with square cut fingernails. They looked like hands that had done a lot, I remember thinking they were hands I could trust. What I paid more attention to was his face. Long and narrow, it was, with high cheeks and a bold nose that fell in a sharp angle from his brow. His chin was stuck out a little, and made a little dimple in either side where it fell into his jaw line. His eyes were bright and darting. They could never focus, always jumping around in his head. His hair was curly, like mine, it stood on end. It spiraled towards the heavens and so I thought he was an angel. The aura I saw around my dad was usually bright orange and bounced off everyone else. Today he had no aura. I could see him sitting on the edge of the bed. Each bead of sweat took residence on his skin and held on for dear life. I could see the needle go in, and I saw the liquid draw itself out of the syringe’s frame. His face, that’s what I’ll never forget. His pain ended and all I saw was pure pleasure. I stared hard at him. The giveaway was his body, vibrating like an idling car. His jaw spun and his eyes were darting blots. I didn’t need to see the needle again, I knew. My hands clenched at my side, I said nothing. My mouth hung party open as I watched him. Even when he was high, he still mesmerized me. He still hadn’t seen me. I emerged in half shadow, deeper into the room now. My father laid on his back in plush pillows and blankets. Almost like he was sinking, almost like the bed was eating him alive. But he was just high, like always. Slowly I raised myself limb by limb onto the bed. I leaned in close to make sure he was breathing. He was. As I leaned back my silver necklace caught up with a tiny span of light coming through the curtains and caused a high shimmer of light. This shimmer waved across my fathers’ eyelids, but left him undisturbed. I leaned in again to check on his breathing. He was fine. Since I was crouched on the bed on all fours my lower back began to crumble. I could not stop watching my father.
