A Truth and Some Lies
by
Sophie Hoss
Puck had a way of sliding a needle into a vein like an act of contrition. I’d watch him do it with my breath caught in my throat, trying to look like I wasn’t paying attention at all. He was always saying I should have some. He called it his product—like he was selling vacuum cleaners—but I didn’t have the money, and even when he offered to spot me, I said no. I didn’t want to owe him anything. He could get pretty nasty. Heroin burns you up and makes you douse yourself in kerosene to keep the fire going. I don’t know this for a fact. I just know what I saw.
Puck would slump against the side of a building for a few hours and come home with two thousand dollars wadded in his fist. He had a sixth sense about undercover cops. When things were good, he threw parties where people came over and got high for two days. I’d smoke a little weed, to be polite.
“You’re the kind of guy I would run all night for,” Puck said once he sobered up a bit.
Everyone told me he was a lost cause. They said I should move out and cut ties. Instead, I took a class on how to administer Narcan.
When Puck woke up in the hospital after the second overdose, I was sitting next to him pretending to look at rehab pamphlets. He vomited a few times while trying to talk. I held up the waste basket until he was done.
“You love me,” he said groggily. “I know you love me.”
I looked directly into his forehead. It was so sweaty I could almost see my reflection.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Oh.” He slumped back onto the papery hospital pillow. “I thought maybe you did.”
His bare forearm was exposed, and I drew imaginary lines between the track marks, turning them into constellations. A boat. A ladder. A pair of wings. I pictured the vast chasms of space between stars. They always looked so close together from down on the ground.
A nurse walked in to fix Puck’s IV. The needle had fallen out, and it took her a few tries to find the vein again.
“Just a second, honey,” she kept saying. “I promise, you won’t even feel it.”
Puck would slump against the side of a building for a few hours and come home with two thousand dollars wadded in his fist. He had a sixth sense about undercover cops. When things were good, he threw parties where people came over and got high for two days. I’d smoke a little weed, to be polite.
“You’re the kind of guy I would run all night for,” Puck said once he sobered up a bit.
Everyone told me he was a lost cause. They said I should move out and cut ties. Instead, I took a class on how to administer Narcan.
When Puck woke up in the hospital after the second overdose, I was sitting next to him pretending to look at rehab pamphlets. He vomited a few times while trying to talk. I held up the waste basket until he was done.
“You love me,” he said groggily. “I know you love me.”
I looked directly into his forehead. It was so sweaty I could almost see my reflection.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Oh.” He slumped back onto the papery hospital pillow. “I thought maybe you did.”
His bare forearm was exposed, and I drew imaginary lines between the track marks, turning them into constellations. A boat. A ladder. A pair of wings. I pictured the vast chasms of space between stars. They always looked so close together from down on the ground.
A nurse walked in to fix Puck’s IV. The needle had fallen out, and it took her a few tries to find the vein again.
“Just a second, honey,” she kept saying. “I promise, you won’t even feel it.”