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Dimo: Not until you stop hanging out with those girls.
There’s this unspoken understanding between us. He knows I’ve been struggling, though he doesn’t pry. And I don’t tell him about the drugs. It’s like an invisible barrier between us, this secret I’m keeping. I know he’s not stupid—he probably has suspicions.
Suddenly, my head spins. The room feels too bright, too loud, every sound reverberating painfully in my ears.
I clutch at my stomach, the queasiness rising with each passing moment. I need to find a bathroom.
I run until I reach a narrow hallway and stumble into the restroom, bracing myself on the sink. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale a battle against the stifling weight tightening my chest.
In this moment, I couldn’t be more thankful to be alone.
I collapse against the wall, sliding down to the floor in a trembling heap.
My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Every muscle aches.
Panic coils around me, squeezing tighter with every frantic beat of my heart. I press my palms against my temples, trying to steady the relentless pounding in my head. Hot tears sting my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision.
I’m trapped in this bathroom, trapped in my own mind. I want to scream.
I’m weak and drained, as if all my energy has been sapped. I know this will pass, but right now my body is betraying me, punishing me.
My hand shakes as I reach into my purse, fingers fumbling over the baggy inside. I tear it open and hastily scoop up a line. In one swift motion, I bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply, the burn searing through my sinuses.
For a moment, the panic recedes, replaced by a blissful numbness. And for a short while everything is okay. I’m okay.
Then, regret sinks in and the panic returns and I drown into the darkness.
I’m a disgusting human. I’m shameful.
I need to get out of here.
I reach for my phone again.
My eyes land on Dion’s name in my contacts as I look for Dimo’s. A name that both soothes and hurts me in equal measure.
I know it’s a bad idea, but my fingers still fumble over the screen.
Me: I need you.
I close my eyes and wait. At the same time, someone pushes the door open. I’m still seated on the gross floor of the bathroom, high off my ass. A very proud moment.
The woman who walks in barely offers me a glance before heading into one of the stalls.
Seconds later, my phone vibrates. I blink a couple times to focus.
Dion: Are you okay?
I squeeze my eyes shut again, the alcohol and cocaine making my brain tremble in my skull. There’s a ringing in my ears, a constant, high-pitched noise that adds to the assault.
My phone buzzes. He’s calling me.
I pick up.
“Hello,” I say, voice cracking.
“Aria,” Dion breathes out, and hearing his voice, under these circumstances, causes me to break. I start to sob into the phone.
“Baby, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Please tell me you’re safe,” he murmurs.
