Today
Peter spent most of the day hanging around home eating,
drinking (non-alcoholic) and sleeping. When I got home
from work I could tell he had not used since yesterday.
Great! we can perhaps hold a truth conversation some
time tonight. Yes! the Peter smile I love is there.
Yes! he wants dinner. Yes! he wants dinner.
Yes! we watch Seinfeld together. Yes!!
we laugh together.
8pm:
Peter asks me for money for cigarettes. He goes to
the 24-hour garage on the corner. I'm happily doing
the dishes. I finish the dishes and realise Peter
is taking rather longer than expected to get a pack
of cigarettes. Oh well, he's probably met up with
some friends.
9.30pm:
I'm sitting in despair. He's gone to Cabra for sure.
He's gone to score. I pull myself out of total despondency
by assuring myself I'm grateful for the fleeting glimpse
of togetherness we had that evening.
10pm:
Peter returns. He is nervous, jumpy, wild-eyed, pale,
strung out. He had met some friends and was sitting
on a brick wall having a quiet smoke when a police
car pulled up for petrol. They saw Peter, known to
them as a drug user, and asked him what he was doing.
They
did not accept his answer of having a quiet smoke
with friends and thoroughly searched him in full view
of the garage, questioning him and baiting him, accusing
him of going to the garage and for dealing purposes.
`Well,
they didn't find any f****** drugs on me, did they?
`Cause I've been f****** clean for 24 hours. I've
had it.
I'll see ya later.'
As
Peter is closing the door, I call out, `Will you be
back tonight?' `Nah.'
`When will I see you next?' `Dunno.
Gotta go. See ya.' And my Peter is gone. I sleep fitfully,
images of my Peter smiling, alternating with his drug-ravaged
look, and underneath the constant question: when,
how, and if I will see him again.
|
