Chapter 3

(Apartment 969)
Fingers shaking, Lane frantically opened the box of Marlboro Reds. A crisp box, he liked the sturdiness of the packaging as well as the way cigarettes smelled. Smoking was not a particular behavior he took part in, but his desire for a cigarette was stronger than it had ever been. Grabbing one of the little cylinders from inside the package, he put it to his nose, expecting the smell of raisins. However, this time, he got no smell at all. With curiosity, he examined the cigarette, quickly realizing it was not filled with tobacco yet instead, something better. He squished it around in his fingers, kneading out a substance and tearing apart the cigarette's paper. Now there was a little pile of white powder on his coffee table. The pile grew large once all 20 cigarettes had been emptied onto the table, forming a white sea of cocaine. His hands trembled; his nose twitched. At the bottom of the package there was a razor blade along with a small folded note that said, "you are what you eat." His racing mind slowed to halt... "What does this even mean?" In confusion, he immediately began chopping up lines and reached into his wallet to find a dollar. No time for the dollar, he wanted it now. Closing one nostril with a large finger, he bent down to the table, ready to snort the shit that was ruining his life. But he stopped right then and there. Someone was calling his name. He felt disgusted, and now his urge was gone. "Lane!" Someone called him again. Feeling his bed warmed by Chelsea, the addict realized it was a dream.
"Lane, I think someone is at the door. I'm not kidding. Wow, that took you a while to wake up. Having a good dream?" Chelsea said.
"Sex dreams are always hard to wake up from," He lied.
"Open the door! We are not knocking again!"
It had to have been the police. During the night they had heard other noises and knocks from below, but didn't think of it. Sliding the lock chain and punching in the security code on his key pad, Lane opened the door. Staring in his face was a drug hound (Rottweiler to be exact).
"Officer, I would ask if there's a problem, but I already know that answer if you are kicking in my door at 4 am. Can I help you with anything? I assure you nothing is wrong," Lane frantically spoke. He sounded like an idiot. Like a drug addict. Well, he was a drug addict.
"The Police Department has decided to a random search of apartments in Dreamwood Terrace following reports of expansive drug abuse. I would advise you to tell us if you have drugs and where you store them immediately. Non-cooperation with a police officer can get you in jail. So can meth, if you have any, so be quick," Said the officer. He was fat and bald, wearing his officers uniform as well as knee high boots. He was the kind of guy who was addicted to power. Everyone is addicted to something. Before Lane could speak, he noticed the nasty, orange mustache on his face. There couldn't be a more disgusting facial hair color. In a panic, Lane tried to remember where he used to stash all his cocaine.... his mind raced. "Do I even have any?" Then he realized he threw the last bit away a few days ago along with the condom box he hid it in that was now empty. Chelsea was very pressing these days in an attempt to keep his mind off of cocaine. He didn't mind.
Chelsea attempted to join the conversation with the police, wondering what the commotion was
about, but Lane sent her back to bed. Couldn't have the creepy orange stache guy eyeballing his girlfriend in her pajamas.
The police began searching his apartment without asking. No warrant was even presented, however, he wasn't mad. Not until they broke his bottle of single barrel scotch. The dog franticly licked up some of the mess. Something was wrong with this police unit. Lane made sure to examine them more closely, noticing their bloodshot eyes, mild sweating, and strange aroma. These policemen were all drug addicts as well. Maybe not addicts, that was a stretch, but something was certainly not right about them. Most reeked of marijuana smoke, and one of them had a "powdery nose." Looking at the broken bottle of scotch, he remembered another broken bottle, one from his past. In high school, his father had been an alcoholic and a carouser, treating Lane's mother like absolute shit, abusing her, and sleeping with other women. One night, he came home drunk, and Lane tried to defend his mother from him. A whiskey bottle was thrown against the wall that night, and Lane received his first punch from his father. High school was not a good time for him. His family was too poor to afford nearly anything, and his father drank all of their money away. Lane never did well in school, and right after he graduated he moved to Colorado to become a construction worker to escape his family. Construction gave him purpose in life and allowed him to focus on something else other than his broken family and his own battle's with depression. Its funny though. He thought he had escaped troubles after starting his own company but in the end everything returns in one way or another. Coke screwed him over. But he would never treat Chelsea the way his father treated his mother.
Drifting back to the scene of his apartment, he realized the police couldn't find anything. One cop yelled, "****" and they proceeded to leave. He went back to sleep with Chelsea.
Lane went to his current construction project, admiring the work going on. He supervised, led, analyzed, and directed his team of workers as well as the progress they were making. With relief, the workday ended around 4. It was too hard to work in snow. Taking a stroll to meet up with Chelsea back at his apartment, he walked by an old laundromat. As he walked, his Cole Han loafers crushed the snow underneath him, leaving footprints and impressions. Weather was no excuse not to dress with class, however, he was poorly dressed for the snow and somewhat regretted it. His clothes looked good, but he looked like crap. It was 14 degrees outside and he was sweating at the brow, and out of nowhere, stumbled through the snow. His heart raced, his brained screamed for cocaine. The snow made him crave it the most. It was like he was walking through a world filled with cocaine. Still stumbling in front of the laundromat, Lane looked in front of him, attempting to get home in one piece without falling. He felt weak at the knees. God he wished these withdrawals would lift. No wonder people can't quit. "Your a damn fool, son. A damn fool. No better than I am. One man's poison is another man's powder." In confusion, he turned around and for a moment, his father stood laughing behind him, smoking a cigarette, laughing, smiling. His father was dead. "Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me?"He muttered. He clenched his face with his hands and kept walking and looking over his shoulder. In place of his dad now was a little asian man, walking briskly behind him. The man looked crazed, like a lunatic. His eyes had a glaze on them like he hadn't slept in days, and the bags under his eyes could have been used for groceries. Something was on the little man's mind. Something as powerful as cocaine, but not actually cocaine itself. Something else. It must have been interesting to see a crazy man and an addict walking in front of the laundromat with one another. Lane put a pep in his step and so did the little man. He had to get home.

Chapter 2

"I tell you what. The thirst never quenches itself. It never goes away. You just have to find some other part of your life to replace it with. I tried to quit drinking for 7 years. Tried three rehab programs. They never worked..... Always seemed to find myself bored in the end, and I'd go back. The only thing that saved me was my wife, but I didn't know she was my wife yet. I met her at another AA meeting, and she had been clean for three years. The only reason she kept going was to remind herself why she quit in the first place. She was tired of being a slave."

Lane listened.
Lane sweated.
Lane scratched.
Lane held Chelsea's hand.

He was on a five day streak of no cocaine; withdrawal was a bitch as usual. When they went out for a lunch the other day, he ended up telling her, and he told her everything; how it started, and how he wanted to be finished with it. Then, Lane told her that he loved her, and that he needed her more than anything in the world, more than he needed the drug itself. She agreed to go to an AA meeting (even though he really should have joined a NA group instead).

Seeing him struggle, Chelsea said, "Lane, listen to these people. You just started.. you still have a chance. I will be with you the whole journey. I will do whatever it takes. You always have me. Anytime you ever want to use, I need you to call me. I can take care of you and I will especially be good at controlling your urges."

"That means more than you know. Thank you. Thank you for helping me," Said Lane. He knew that he stood a chance at quitting.

The AA meeting ended at 6:00 pm and Lane set out into the streets of downtown with Chelsea. His withdrawal symptoms were killing him. Absolutely killing him. But they seemed to be more like symptoms of the flu. "Maybe it is the flu... Maybe its the drugs. Maybe both," Lane thought. "Chelsea," Said Lane.
"Yeah?"
"I need to go home. I need a bed. I think I'm going to be really sick."
"Do you want me to call a cab or do you think you can manage the walk?"
"I can walk. Our apartment isn't too far away."
It felt weird to him to call it their apartment. Lane's apartment for years had been his only place to be alone. He lived a bachelor lifestyle out of that apartment, filled with work, booze, broads, and as of late, cocaine. And it surprised him. He couldn't have been happier that Chelsea was moving in.

"Woah, that's so cool!" Chelsea said.
"Huh?"
"You see all that glitter?"
"Yeah. I do.... its everywhere. I kind of like it. Funny thing is that its never going to go away!"
As Chelsea walked beside him, Lane stopped her. He saw something in this distance. He proceeded to run over to a large silver pile of glitter. Kids had already been playing in it, and it must have been much bigger earlier in the day. Lane grabbed a handful, and as Chelsea approached, he threw it over her head. Then he watched it fall, and he watched it glitter. And he watched her smile.
"You couldn't be more beautiful," Said Lane.
Chelsea laughed, and blushed slightly.
"Lets get you home buddy," She said.

They walked up the stairs to lane's apartment, and on the way up, they smelled something. Something very strong was coming from someones apartment.
"Damn! I didn't know Snoop Dogg was living her now!" Lane said. Chelsea laughed.
For a moment, he was feeling better.  Some of the symptoms had lifted momentarily, but still, he felt like shit. Like flu shit. But cocaine wasn't on his mind."
"Damnit!" Someone shouted from inside the room. A man emerged, reeking of marijuana. His eyes were as red as Chelsea's lips.
"Sorry for the smell dog," Said the man.
Lane laughed. "How are you doing Legs!"
"Why'd you call him legs?" Said Chelsea.
"Long story, and it would probably bore you. One time.... Never mind. Its a weed joke anyway. I've got to go get some fried chicken from K-Roger's," Legs interrupted.
"Well... I have some fried Chicken in my pad actually. This is my girlfriend Chelsea. We don't have any evening plans, and well, I am not feeling too hot. I'd love a pick me up," Said Lane.
"Do you two know each other?" Said Chelsea.
"Yeah, I met legs the first day I moved into this apartment building. I have never met a man that can out smoke my buddy legs here," Lane Said.

They enjoyed a wonderful Chicken dinner, and afterwards, Chelsea and Lane watched a movie called "The Shining."
Curled up on the couch with Chelsea, lane practically passed out. Withdrawals made him so tired. He felt like he couldn't do anything without cocaine.
Right before he fell asleep, Lane pulled Chelsea in to tell her something.
"That chicken was too good."