Euphoria

Darcy Hart

***

Life in London was supposed to be easy for a Hart. I was supposed to be more, I was the first son, the one who would shoulder the weight of our legacy. I was supposed to rise up and be more than what I am. But I failed, miserably. As I grew up, I learned that I could never meet their expectations, who they wanted me to be and who I truly was, were two things that were utterly incompatible.

And then there was he, the younger son, my twin brother, physically identical to me in every way, yet so very different from me. He was a shining star, a beacon of hope in our parents’ life. The responsibility shifted from me to him as soon as our parents understood I would always be a disappointment. He was brilliant, and effortless. He made success look easy, and gods, I envied him. I envied the love and reverence he got from our parents, the touches and caresses, and words of encouragement I had never known—and never would know. He would never know the sting of their disappointment; he would never know the venom behind their words. He would never know.

I was happy to let him shine; it made everyone happy. But there came a time when the growing discontentment in my heart consumed me, it happened all too suddenly and so slowly. In my twentieth year the drink found me, and then in my twenty-first year, coke found me. And when it found me, it found him too. My mind was on fire, my subconscious telling me I had ruined him. I snuffed out the flame with my influence, his bright future, my parents’ hope, it all got buried under a mountain of cocaine. And I was the one who had pushed him into the arms of the fiend called addiction.

Now, every night and every morning, is the same as the night before it. I do too much coke, drink too much liquor, because it’s the only thing that quiets the hateful voices in my head. The scornful words that assault me daily, if I drink, they can’t find me. If I use, then I might even feel joy. Though I know it’s not true joy, the ever-expanding chasm between me and the parents that have always hated me, widened by the knowledge I destroyed him—with that knowledge, there can never be true joy. And I, not content with having destroyed him, resent him, I actually resent him. Because no matter how badly he falls, they love him, they support him and I will never know what that’s like.

So, I drink some more, I use again and in doing so, I freefall down an abyss, with no way of knowing where I will land, or if I will ever land at all. There is no escaping this fate. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. Just a meaningless march where the only moment that matters is the rush of euphoria I get from my last hit.

I had no friends, not truly. Only people that watched me unfurl as I spiraled into nothingness. Cocaine is perhaps my only friend, the only thing I love. But no matter how much love and devotion I showed it, cocaine did not love me back.

I am alone. Existentially so. I am the unwanted son, the one who was lucky to have been born at all, a great disappointment to all those who know me.

And I just know…that I will always be so.

***

Monroe Félix

***

My life with him was no life at all. The cold northern California nights became a backsplash to a turbulent affair. I had loved him once, at least, I think I did. I don’t remember anymore. It started easy enough, he was tall and handsome, but his beauty was only skin deep. He was a serial cheater, and after every affair I told myself this would be the last time. But I stayed every time. But the cheating wasn’t the worst of it, I pray to whatever forces exist in the universe that the cheating was the worst part.

Our love was violent. To survive, I became rabid, a wild animal. Just as he was. Our domestic disputes always gave way to fiery passions, where he got exactly what he wanted from me, and I got nothing, not even the courtesy of feeling good. He wrung me up, twisting all the essence out of my bones, all my energy and feelings, until there was nothing. Then he would wait for me to recharge, and we would do it all over again. But what happens when I can no longer recharge? What happens when I am devoid of all feelings, even bad ones?

I drink. I drink to feel just as much as I drink to numb. But no matter how much I drink, I cannot escape the abyss.

I spent too long with him, we met in 1976, we have been together for five years. Five years is too long to live in savagery. I should have left the second he lifted his hand to me, I should have left the second he cheated, there are many moments where I should have left, but I didn’t. I stayed. I stayed so long I was beginning to wonder where he ended, and I started.

But finally, I have an opportunity to escape. An envelope addressed to me brought with it the promise of a new life, far away from him, in London. A full scholarship, to disappear. He would never find me. As I stand before him, watching him breathe in and out evenly as he slumbers, I hope to god I will never see him again.

Perhaps I owe him an explanation, perhaps I should have said my goodbyes. But I had been on the receiving end of his rage one too many times to tempt fate. I watched him for a final moment as I closed the door behind me, it was cowardly to leave without saying anything, but if I didn’t leave now, I would stay here forever.

I only hope that whatever is awaiting me in London is better than the total despair of California. But somehow…I doubt it. Because misery doesn’t just follow me around, I am misery.