My Sister’s Overdose in Reverse by Arvilla Fee

      Benjamin Haines CC



My Sister’s Overdose in Reverse
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    The paramedics step away from her body, collect their equipment and back slowly out of the bathroom. The sound of sirens fades into the distance. Color flushes back to her cheeks; her lips a rosy-red instead of blue bonnet blue. She sits up, slowly, releases the rubber band from her arm. The liquid heroin squirts out of the needle and returns to the metal spoon before puffing back to dusty white powder and returning to its square of foil. The lighter lies dormant on the cool tile. 
    My sister stands and looks at herself in the mirror, smoothing her long dark hair. I can tell she’s hashing it all out—this war between going to rehab or loading up her veins so she can block out the thousand paper cuts of life. She’s tired. Lethargic. Could be low potassium. Could be depression. It’s probably depression.
    She backs out of the bathroom, has a conversation with friends. Tells them she called rehab and that she’ll go there tomorrow. They believe her. 
    The day before. The jail cell is cold. Barren save for a bunk with a one-inch mattress and a stainless steel toilet bolted to the floor. She’s scared. Going through withdraw. There are a million bugs crawling up her arms. She scratches. It’s maddening. Maybe someone will bail her out. Someone does. 
    Three days ago—she steps out of a department store with a cart full of merchandise. The cops meet her at the door. They’ve been watching her. She’s placed in handcuffs. Going to jail. She doesn’t understand why. She hasn’t slept in four days. 
    Hours earlier. She’s shopping at a department store. She’s been shopping for twelve hours. People are following her. She senses eyes on her. Her cart is nearly full. She doesn’t need any of it—well, maybe a few things. She can’t think. Can’t sort out what she’s doing here. Her heart is racing. Whatever she does, she must keep moving. Standing is not an option. 
    Two days earlier. She hands her dealer cash; he gives her a stash. She hopes it’s good. She needs a pick-me-up. She’s exhausted. Arm is banded, needle ready—swish—straight into the bloodstream. Sweet relief. Now she can get through her day and probably the next couple days after that. Work at the hospital is a grind. Those 12-hour shifts. But it’ll get better. It must get better.
    Years earlier. Her eyes are bright, her kids young; she’d like to have a partner, but she’s doing OK as a single mom. Baby daddy has a drug problem. He doesn’t want help. She wants better things for herself and her children. She smiles and talks like a magpie. Her stories are full of hand gestures, comical facial expression, giggling, snorting, and flopping dramatically into the floor. Her body is tone, tanned. Everyone is proud of her for getting her nursing degree. My sister—she’s going to make something of herself! She’s the strong one.

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Arvilla Fee teaches English and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling, and she never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/

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