Fleeting Sobriety

by Groveclearer

It must have been love

But it's over now

It must have been good

But I lost it somehow

- Roxette, "It Must Have Been Love"

     During the scant few hours of his adult life in which Wendell Allen Roussimoff is entirely sober he is pervaded by a sense of emptiness. A deep, disquiet longing not merely for another fix but for something more nurturing. It is during these rare instances that the urge to call his family takes over. Usually his youngest brother, Sylvan. Sylvan always looked up to Wendell and emulated his entrepreneurial spirit. He ran (and still runs) a parking garage in Paris. A very successful one but a parking garage nonetheless. He'll never come close to being a billionaire like Wendell was once. He'll never have his face on Time Magazine. He'll never have women enough to forget their names and have them love you anyway. Money does buy happiness and he was never happier than when he was a billionaire. Not that anyone else in his family would ever understand that. Sylvan would then say that the rest of the family earns their money honestly. That Wendell is an embarrassment to them. That most of his siblings have changed their names so not to be associated with him. That he'd rather die poor than live the way Wendell does. Then one of them would hang up and Wendell would grab the nearest intoxicant and get himself absolutely fucked out of his mind. Pure catharsis. The breaking of the dam. Those were the best highs Wendell ever experienced. The only ones that felt like getting properly high. Overcoming something.

     Wendell understood he was an addict. Intellectually, of course. What else could he be? He'd been told he was such often enough. Eventually if something is spoken enough times it becomes the truth regardless of what reality is. Fortunately, Wendell had been around the block enough times to come to the conclusion that reality is neither objective nor subjective - it simply didn't exist. Everything that supposedly existed was perceived through his senses. If he could alter his senses through the use of drugs that meant perception itself was nothing but a sequence of chemical reactions. The Buddhists were on to something when they claimed that reality was something to be overcome. Wendell had never read any Buddhist writings but that's what he assumed they said; and ultimately what he believed something to be was more important than what it actually was. Like when other people called him an addict. Addicts have no control. Addicts destroy themselves. Wendell had control. Wendell knew exactly what he did and why. He was a connoisseur in the fine French tradition. That it was of a hobby considered abhorrent (and yet curiously enjoyed by many, many people) was the only reason he was demonized. People were morons. Wendell was not a moron. Wendell was not people. That's why Wendell had been a billionaire and Sylvan hadn't.

     He remembered his ex-wife, Sorova. How she'd amused him at first with her courtesies and beautiful voice. She was like an oversized child with all the wonder that entails. But then she held to him too tightly. She wanted to know what he was doing and why. She asked him too many questions a woman should not ask. The secret to a successful marriage is that a man does his job and a woman does hers and they only come together to wine, dine, or fuck. Worked out well enough for his parents. But Sorova did not understand this. She wanted Wendell to be different than he was. She tried to invade his logos, as the Greeks would say. Doing so would warp the entire world. His mind was the filter through which all of existence flowed. Didn't she understand that? Stupid slithering slut. Pale, corpulent worm.

     He began to shift his sobriety tactics on to her. He'd go hours, up to a full day even, without touching anything stronger than coffee. He'd let the frustration build. The little annoyances of her fawning over him, complimenting him, asking him what he was doing, and generally being an obstructive woman. The stupid way she'd ask him if he were alright... what did that even mean? Was he alright? Did he feel right all the time? Was he physically oriented in the right direction? I'm surefooted if that's what you mean, you legless pest of a wife. God, why did I even marry you? Because you sang nicely to me once? Because our colors match? Because I was just really down to have sex with a snake? No, no... he knew why. Because it felt like a good idea at the time. And now it didn't anymore. Things change. Nietzsche said that, probably. Him or Feng Shui. Regardless of its providence, Wendell Allen Roussimoff: CEO of MANNA was saying it right now and that's all that truly mattered.

      One evening, while on a concoction of methadone and crack cocaine, he truth came to him like a bolt from the blue: she was an extraplanar entity worming her way into his reality and attempting to corrupt it into something alien. The horror that he was not alone in the universe overtook him; the horror that there was something other in this world and it disapproved of him to such an extent he needed to be corrected. She of course denied this. In the ensuing struggle he grabbed a log from the fireplace and smashed it into her face. Her scream was terrible enough it shocked him out of his high. He didn't even know that such a feat was possible. They told the police there was an incident with the fireplace. 

      It was a relatively satisfying cathartic high after the education in pain he received from that bloated, drooling brute she calls a brother.

      And now here he was, sober again. No telephone in sight. No Sorova. How the fuck was he gonna get high without building up to it? What's the point? Why did he choose to be sober anyway? He sat back into the chair, arms looped over the backrest. He stared at the wall.

      “I wish I were dead,” he said to nobody in particular. He paused for a second. “Shut up,” he said to himself. “You've got nobody left,” he said to nobody. “You've got me,” he said to himself. “That's what I said,” he said to the empty room.

      The absurdity of sobriety was getting to him. He scratched behind his ear. “I'm not nobody. I'm a billionaire,” he said. “Was a billionaire,” he corrected himself. “Could be one again if I wanted.” “And what's stopping you?” nobody in particular asked him. “What's stopping you?” he deflected the question back. “Nothing,” said nobody.

      Wendell lowered his head. “You fucking midget. You really are nothing. Nothing at all. Not rich, not handsome, not charming. Not even famous, really. They laugh at you. And they should. You're a one-bit druggie in a two-bit world. I wish your father had beat you as a child. You'd at least have an excuse for being a fuck up if he did. That's what all the scumbags on the street do. They blame the world for making them as they are. But you? You chose this, Wendell. You know it. You keep doing it. 'Cause you like it. You're worse than a scumbag. Scumbags at least have something inside.”

       His pulse was rising. It was working.

       His eyes began to itch. He clawed at the armrests. He got up from the chair and stormed his way towards his stash.

       “Your family hates you. Your girl hates you. You hate you. And you deserve it. You wouldn't cry if your own mother died. You aren't worthy of the world, you greedy little deluded bastard. Can't even get high anymore without hurting someone. Sadistic little prick. Grumbling. Talking to yourself. Rambling. Trying to keep yourself mad enough so you feel something when you shoot up. Gonna start killing people next? Huh? Worthless little bastard. They should have drowned you as a child.”

      The thing he distantly identified as his own heartbeat pounded in his ears as he prepped the shot. As marked as his arms were there was still some space above the sleeve. He hadn't used needles in almost a year but he was in a nostalgic mood tonight. Shooting right into the bicep to reach the vein was never ideal but hell with it. If he was gonna die he was gonna die high.

      “You're talking to yourself, you fucking dust mite. 'Cause nobody else will. You could pay someone to talk to you. If you were still a billionaire. Which you aren't. And why's that? Because you fucked and snorted all the money away? Because that inbred gypsy tailor pulled a fast one on you? Or was it because you stuck a needle in your arm thirty-something years ago and it's all been downhill since then? I can tell you which one I think is the most likely and you're not gonna like it, Wendy.”

       He pressed the plunger and snapped the band.

       “Not gonna like it at all,” was the last thing he blurbled out before the wave hit him and carried him over the wall.

Image by Pyrodox