Whatever (Folk Song in C) by Amy Lovell

                        Derek Mindler CC



​Whatever (Folk Song in C) 

   Dedicated first to Elliot Smith, and second, dedicated  to all the other abandoned junkies. I’m so sorry to Elliot Smith for the things he lived with until he couldn’t. I’m so sorry for all of us for the things that drove us to heroin that no one can understand.

   Solely by staring at me, you could perceive I’m not a person anymore. I'm just another thing that happens in the dark. My lovely head collapsed against the glass window of the el train. Mascara stains resting under my eyes, glittery eyeshadow flakes scattered across my flushed cheeks, and faded red lipstick, painted an explicit portrait of my evening. Fuck sleazy men for money from 8pm until 2am. Drink until I don’t mind dying young. Solicit some junkie to hang out with. Ask them to take me to score. A typical Friday night. 
   I brushed my fingers inside the pocket of my denim jacket over the heroin bags I bought half an hour prior. The other passengers on the el train either shoot me dirty looks or pursue my attention with aspirations of doing I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what to me. El train rides during the forbidden hours double as a non-family friendly version of the Philadelphia Zoo; and I was their involuntary observation. Soon I wouldn’t need to feel them staring. I wouldn’t need to feel a thing. Some people describe heroin as feeling euphoric. I would describe heroin as feeling nothing. Perhaps those are synonymous. 
   Shame and alcohol concoct a wearisome mixture. Remaining awake on the el train is a hassle. I’m going to get better. Tonight would be the last time. That claim was my Friday night lullaby. A stray girl could dream. I’m a broken record of broken promises. We all are.  If you’re hanging out with me on the avenue, you’re not better. So many late nights. All those people I hung out with who mirrored my guilt. To honor Friday tradition, I would plug in my cheap headphones. I would become a personification of my favorite song. 

                                                                                                             If you’re all done like you said you’d be 
                                                                                                             What are you doing hanging out with me? 

                                                                            I can’t stop echoing these words. 

                                                                                                             They come here alone and they leave in twos  
                                                                                                              Except for you and me who just came to use

   2am. I’m another ghost haunting the avenue. A man trailed me for one too many blocks. I glared him down until he vanished into a darker corner. I’m not afraid of anything anymore, that’s my fatal flaw. I stumbled onto a restless street block to seek out a companion knowledgeable of the prowling dealers. Our necessity for each other was to reassure one another when committing the crime of never getting better. 4am. Time to part ways, leave each other as ghosts again. Getting better sounds overrated anyway. Anyway, it's alleviating to discover people who don’t leave me worrying if I’m strange. I’m normal here.

                                                                                                            If you’re all done like you said you’d be 
                                                                                                            What are you doing hanging out with me?

   I selected a man lurking outside the late hours Chinese food shop as my guide. Flickering street lamps placed under the el train tracks cried somber light onto the avenue. Veiled whispers from the things of the dark materialize into shadows under the trembling transparency. My temporary partner in crime and I evaded the exposure for a pathway dark enough to imply an exclusive invitation meant for uncanny things like us. We crept behind a rotting, wooden backdoor. A sinister familiarity contaminated the rotting flesh of the door. This house tombed my skeleton. I decayed into a ghost here. I bought heroin for the first time here. We drifted back towards the Chinese food shop after scoring.
   “What’s your name?” he asked. Tons of people had been requesting my name. I grew annoyed with this question. 
   “I’m The Queen of the Avenue,” I proclaimed instead. I poised a few defensive paces ahead of my courtier to side-eye him perchance he conspired to commit treason. Upon demanding my crown, I twirled around to regard him. His half smile bestowed royal amusement towards my confidence. However, my noble proclamation wasn’t confident. It was reckless.  

                                                                                                            Why you tell me stuff that's so plainly untrue -
                                                                                                If you'll be straight edge with me, I'll be straighter with you

   And again. Per usual I wandered alone. The epiphany scolded me. I shouldn’t use heroin anymore. For the sake of my friends - who deserve to remain oblivious forever. Seriously. I don’t want to buy tonight or any other night. Within minutes of my epiphany, while I trudged up the concrete steps of the el train platform, a man ambushed my attention. He offered to escort me to a dealer in exchange for a few bucks. Was I seriously supposed to resist? On one of these inevitable nights my sadistic habit would kill me. Hiding the truth from my friends wouldn’t survive as a solution forever. But for the night, what they don’t know won’t kill them. 

                                                                                                           I’ve been wanting to do anything for a longtime
                                                                                                     Whatever you’re doing now will probably suit me fine

   Another 2am. A pair of captivating green eyes sat beside me in the stairwell of the el train station. Green eyes became an undying addiction of mine at age 15. He gifted me 4 orange capped needles and unwrapped one for himself. His eyes look so endearing - innocent - I almost forget. He shot himself up casually, like nothing was wrong. 
   “So did you have a fucked up childhood too?” he asked.
   “It was pretty rough,” I said. I didn’t wish to answer his objective question (grant the subjective reasons behind why I felt so afraid I ended up hiding in hell). Drug addiction is dark. But not as dark as the trials sentencing it.
   “Coming out here will only bring you more pain, you know,” he said. I had figured that out already. He said that because he had figured that out too, still there we sat, hanging out with each other. 
   An hour before, I shadowed alongside him to score.
   “I’m not buying heroin though, I’m buying fentanyl,” he warned. I had never used straight fentanyl. That's a death sentence. 
   “Yea it’s whatever,” I said. I bought 8 bags. 

                                                                                                           If you’re all done like you said you’d be 
                                                                                                        What are you doing hanging out with me?

What are you doing hanging out with me?

​

Amy Lovell resides in Philadelphia and is a fifth year senior at Temple University. She gains most of her joy from writing fiction and nonfiction stories. Her work can be found in Tilde V and she has work forthcoming in Thorn Literary Magazine. Twitter is @verydissapoint

---