Your left hand rests warm in your front jeans pocket while your right sacrifices itself to bring the cigarette to your lips as you gaze out over the East River trying not to shake. It’s cold, but your need for a fix is the true culprit of your convulsions, and your dealer is late.

The center of the bridge was where you’d always meet, a convenient place for a Brooklynite like yourself, and a City kid – his unorthodox income let him afford it – to meet up. You would do this four times a week, each just as smoothly as the last, with no obstacles or hiccups. You’d walk toward each other, slyly hand off the transaction and keep on your way without a break in your motion. It was almost flawless and despite the thousands of eyes upon the foot traffic of the Brooklyn Bridge at any given time, you were practically imperceptible.

But this time he’s late. And you’re nervous.

Your drug dealer is nothing if not punctual. Persistent. The kind of guy who, when a schedule becomes a habit, doesn’t need prior notice to assure of its happening. You haven’t spoken to him on the phone in months. It’s a mutual understanding that every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, at 8pm, you will be making a purchase and he will be making a sale.

But it’s 8:20 and he’s nowhere to be seen. And you begin to freak out a little bit.

You’re a junky, you need a fix, and all you can think of is the worst. The only thing on your mind is the drug and how soon you’re going to use it. Or if you’ll ever see it again. You start to wonder if your dealer has been picked up by the cops or a transaction with another client went awry. Either way, you’re thinking you’re fucked.

Instead of being concerned for his safety, like bleeding out in a dark alley after being robbed for his supply, or wearing bracelets in the back of a cop cruiser, you’re lighting up another cigarette and wiping your nose on your denim sleeve, shivering down to your spine. You can’t feel the cold anymore; you’re so numb. You’re praying you don’t look like a guy waiting to buy drugs to the passersby on the bridge, but rather a lost and confused boy, wandering around aimlessly with nothing but his thoughts.

The snow is falling. Slowly, but consistently. Enough to turn your hair white. And you’re still thinking you’re fucked.

You’re watching the snow pile up on the river banks and it brings you back to your childhood winters of snowmen and snow angels. Constructing igloos and barricades as protection from flying snowballs. You think about how when you were young, all it took was a snowstorm to make you feel happy. And your mother was proud. You think that as you got older, the snow evolved into cocaine, and your mother wasn’t proud anymore. You think about all the fights and arguments with your mom, and that Rachel Leigh Cook PSA, and how the smashing of dishes was a real incident for you. You think of particularly that one dinner argument over seeing your grandfather and how you were too stubborn to go visit him on his deathbed. You think about how he’s passed now and you never even once went to see him, even though your mother told you it was his last dying request. You think about your cocaine habit and how it went hand-in-hand with abusing your mother. She finally kicked you out of the house but you wouldn’t leave, so the cops had to come and escort you out, and when you went back at night, the locks were changed. And so you lived in that dive bar you worked at in Harlem for a week, until the owner found you sleeping behind the bar because you didn’t wake up in time to sneak out the back.

You think about Sadie and how you really did like her. How the beginning of the relationship was glorious, but as you slipped down into the heavier drugs, so did the relationship and she tried to end it. And you were doped up when she told you and you couldn’t bear the thought of her being with someone else so you slipped that blade you always carry in your pocket between her ribs and said, “You can’t leave me. I’m leaving you.” And you did. You left her for dead.

Then you went to jail for a while. But only a little while. You had a good lawyer because despite all the pain and torture you’ve caused your mother over the years, she still loves you. And she would do anything for you. Somehow, prison was a breeze. Given how scrawny you are it’s a wonder even to you that you made it out alive. But it came and went and you were a free man yet again.

It’s 8:45 now and your drug dealer still isn’t there. You think about your friend John and how you beat the shit out of him over a small crack rock. You wonder what he’s done with his life. What he’s up to. You think about calling him.

You think of your first overdose, and how your friends are better people than you are for taking you to the hospital, because you watched your one friend O.D. when you refused to return the favor. You didn’t want to go back to jail, so you let your friend die.

You think about what a piece of shit you’ve become and wonder how you got here. You think about how much of a burden you’ve been to the people you love and that they are the people who really matter. You think about leaving right now to tell them that you love them and you’re sorry and that you need help. You think about bettering yourself, quitting the junk, taking a fresh start. You could do it. Put the past behind you and stay sober.

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket and you pull it out. There’s a text message from your dealer: “On my way. Getting on bridge. Running late.”

You pull your money out and look at it in your hands. You throw your cigarette over the edge and begin to walk.

BIO:

Matt Sweder is a writer from Philadelphia, PA. His work has appeared in Ricky’s Backyard, Eggy’s Dead, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Kill Pretty Magazine. He is also known for writing the occasional email.